Plain Sight
by The Buzz
Summary: A routine mission goes bad when Kirk, Spock, and McCoy find themselves crashed on a remote planet, injured, and hidden from the Enterprise. To make matters worse, the planet's inhabitants appreciate neither Starfleet nor unexpected visitors.
1. Chapter 1

"Captain," Spock informed them evenly from his position at the helm of the shuttlecraft, "it appears that our long-range sensors have ceased to function."

Kirk stared at the Vulcan for a moment, then glanced around the shuttlecraft as though some answer could be found in McCoy, the gray walls, or the empty seats, fitted with harnesses for this trip in case of turbulence. He caught Bones' worried eye for a moment before turning his attention fully back to Spock. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Spock said, "that whatever has been disrupting subspace communications in this area, and preventing our transporters from functioning, seems to have expanded its scope." He paused for a moment and entered several commands in quick succession into the computer. This he followed up with, "Fascinating."

"How much will this affect our mission?" Kirk asked.

Spock punched a few commands into the computer, waited a moment, then reported, "It may impede our ability to land on the planet's surface."

Kirk and McCoy exchanged glances again. "How badly?" Kirk asked.

"And just say it outright, Spock, _please_," McCoy interjected.

Now Spock turned away from his instruments and faced them. He hesitated before speaking, and Kirk tried to read the emotion that passed, ever so subtly, over his face. Worry? Annoyance? "Assuming that our shorter-range sensors maintain their function, I believe that I can bring us to the surface in a controlled crash. Assuming we do so within the safety margin, there is no reason that the craft should sustain more than minor damage."

"And our other option is to regain orbit and wait for Scotty to pick us up?"

Spock nodded.

"I see," Kirk said. He fell silent as his mind worked.

They were heading down to the planet _because_ it blocked subspace transmissions, not in spite of the fact, though Spock had been certain their sensors wouldn't be affected. Starfleet had long known about the planet's existence and its peculiar nature, but had ignored it for several years on the grounds that it was useless to build a base upon, far out of the way of most ships' paths, uninhabited, and apparently void of any useful natural resources. Federation scientists had been generally content to attribute the planet's communication-blocking abilities to unspecified anomalies in its magnetic field.

It hadn't been until Spock, who found the anomalies "fascinating" in their own right, had petitioned both Kirk and Starfleet for an exploratory mission that anyone had really considered one. He hadn't faced opposition from either. After all, the latest Klingon encounter had left Scott happy to spend some time nursing his engines to health in orbit around the star system's only other planet (a class B behemoth about an hour away by shuttlecraft), and the rest of the crew to enjoy a short reprieve from duty. Kirk had joined Spock on the scientific mission for the official reason of "exploring new worlds" and for a less official but more truthful lack of anything better to do while Scotty effected repairs. He'd suggested that McCoy come along-study the effects on the human body!-and the doctor had agreed with only minimal grumbling. They were scheduled to rendezvous with the _Enterprise_ in the planet's orbit in a little under six hours.

"Well, Jim, what are we waiting for? Let's get back into orbit," Bones said. "I don't need to be a doctor to point out that crashing would be detrimental to our health."

Of course, Spock wouldn't like the idea of wasting such an opportunity for scientific inquiry, but, Kirk thought, the Vulcan would just have to deal with it. This wasn't a crucial mission and Bones was right. "Bring her back into orbit, Spock," he said. "We'll contact the _Enterprise_ from there if we can. If we have to, we'll just wait."

Spock acknowledged the order and hunched over the controls once more. Then he straightened up. He looked, as best as Kirk could tell, mildly perturbed. "I can't," he said.

"You can't?" McCoy demanded. "What do you mean, you can't?"

Kirk waved a hand to quiet him. "Explain."

Spock addressed Kirk. "The mechanisms for plotting and establishing an orbit are also dependent upon our long-range sensors, a fact that I had failed to consider."

"This is just wonderful," Bones said. "Wonderful! How did we not see this coming? How did you not see this coming, Spock? You of all—"

"Bones," Kirk said sharply. The doctor pressed his lips together, folded his arms and sunk back in his seat. Kirk thought for a moment, decided he wouldn't accomplish anything from his seat, got up and walked over to Spock. He peered over the Vulcan's shoulder at the controls. "What'll happen if we try?" he asked.

Spock sighed, ever so slightly. "We are… flying blind, Captain. We would likely overshoot or undershoot the attempted orbit, at best wasting fuel and jeopardizing our return voyage, at worst," he paused, "burning up."

Damn, Kirk thought. This was supposed to have been a completely routine mission, a diversion to appease Spock's curiosity and pass the time while the ship was in orbit, and now they were on the verge of being bested by a simple sensor malfunction. _That's not how this is supposed to go_. He leaned over the console further, but of course nothing he saw contradicted the Vulcan's words. "And if we land?" he prompted. "That's no better if we can't attain orbit again without our sensors."

Spock didn't answer for a moment. "I believe," he said finally, "that from a stationary position on the planet's surface, I could manually calculate a suitable trajectory. Assuming that nothing impeded us-"

Kirk frowned. "And you're sure there's no way of contacting the _Enterprise_? _All_ communications are out?"

Spock nodded. "Yes, Captain."

Kirk chewed the inside of his cheek and tapped his fingers against the console for a moment. Deciding. "And we don't have much time."

"In approximately six-point-eight minutes we will have no choice but to attempt to land," Spock said. "To remain in this trajectory longer would be to risk an uncomfortable impact, and our chances of successfully regaining orbit would then decrease by several orders of magnitude."

Bones mumbled something inaudible behind them. Kirk waved a hand to quiet him, and locked eyes with Spock. "We'll attempt a landing. I don't want to risk a burn-up."

Then something smashed into the shuttlecraft. Kirk had turned to retake his seat when the floor jerked up beneath them all and he fell heavily back, sitting down awkwardly on the console. He stood up quickly and turned to his first officer. "Spock! What was that!"

Spock had stumbled forward into the console, but he righted himself and replied, "We've been hit. Without the sensors—I can't ascertain by what. Shields holding at seventy-six percent."

"Can we divert any power?" Kirk said.

"Not without—" Spock was cut off in mid-sentence by another blast. The shuttlecraft heaved and something blew out on the main console in a shower of sparks. Kirk was thrown against the nearest wall but he pushed himself up and returned to his position behind Spock, gripping the lip of the console for support. Spock was wincing when Kirk arrived but the Vulcan straightened and said urgently, "Captain, I suggest you secure yourself before we are hit again."

Kirk ignored him. "How bad is it?"

Spock pressed several buttons on the smoking computer. "Shields at forty-three percent," he reported. "Communications out, but useless in any case." He paused. "Captain, if we do not attempt a landing within the next one-point-seven minutes…"

"What about getting out of this thing's range?" McCoy called from behind them. "Getting into orbit! Can't we adjust it if we overshoot?"

Spock shook his head, though he remained absorbed by the information being displayed rapidly on his console. He was gripping it with one hand while he input commands with the other, checking readouts faster than Kirk could be sure what each one was or meant. He replied without turning his head. "Doctor, we cannot safely attain orbit, nor do we know what this 'thing's' range is," he said. "Captain—"

Another blast cut him off. This time he and Kirk both stumbled but managed to remain standing. Smoke rising from the console was beginning to fill the cabin and for a moment Kirk waved it uselessly away.

"Dammit Jim, what's going on!" Bones yelled from behind them, where he was stilled strapped into his seat. "Spock said this planet was uninhabited!"

"According to the last Federation census it was," Spock replied tersely over the noise of the sputtering console. The spooked urgency in his tone sent a rush of fear and adrenaline through Kirk. If Spock was afraid, there was something to be afraid of. "Captain, we have just under one minute. We must attempt to touch down before it is too late."

Another blast. This one dislodged Kirk from his position and he landed uncomfortably on his ass, his legs splayed out before him, nearly on top of Bones' feet. Wincing at the ache in his tailbone he stood, shaking off McCoy's hand as the doctor tried to shove him sideways into a seat. "Land, Spock!" he yelled over the hissing of equipment and the roar that was now accompanying their unshielded trip through the atmosphere.

Spock had also been thrown by the last blast, but had already regained his footing and was once more steadily punching commands into the computer. Another blast knocked the Vulcan forward into the controls and sat Kirk heavily back into the seat that McCoy's well-intentioned shoving had put him in front of. He struggled up again, shouting, "Spock! Shields?" only to be pressed down again by another buck of the shuttle.

"Gone," Spock reported. Kirk could see a blistering green burn marring the side of his first officer's hand and exposed wrist. "I am now attempting to guide the shuttlecraft down, but we have passed the margin of safe landing. Captain, I advise that you strap yourself in. Impact expected in approximately two-point-eight minutes."

The shuttlecraft rocked again, and Kirk nearly slid out of his seat. He decided that it probably was time to put on the harness on and fumbled with it as he ordered, "Spock, you too! Secure yourself!"

Spock sat down at the seat behind the helm but continued to work the controls feverishly, ignoring the still-dangling harness.

"Spock!" Kirk yelled. He felt a strangely motherly urge to get up and put the Vulcan's harness on for him, but he wasn't sure he had time and was even less sure that Spock would appreciate the effort.

"Two minutes," Spock reported.

"You'd better know what you're doing, Spock," McCoy muttered.

"Attempting to adjust for lack of sensors," Spock said. "One minute thirty seconds."

Another few seconds passed before Kirk realized that the blasts had stopped and the shuttlecraft was no longer bucking. Were they out of range? Out of sight now that they were so near the planet's surface? Or presumed destroyed? Or something else? He realized with a rush of helpless frustration that he had no idea who or what had been firing on the shuttlecraft, or why, or what would happen to them even if they did manage to land without destroying themselves. He hated this kind of mystery when his crew, his friends, were at stake.

"One minute," Spock said.

"Buckle yourself in, Spock!" McCoy yelled.

They could see the planet easily in the viewscreen now, as the shuttlecraft's short-range sensors were able to pick up on its features. It was mostly brown and gray and icy, with a few patches of muted black-brown dotting the tundra, and it was approaching far too fast.

"Engaging forward thrusters," Spock said aloud to no one.

But although Kirk could feel them slowing, his body pressing forward against his harness, the ground was still hurtling up at them. They were going to crash.

"Thirty seconds," Spock said. He had half-stood again in his feverish navigation. "Attempting to compensate…"

"Dammit, Spock, you're as breakable as we are!" McCoy yelled. In response the Vulcan sat again and began to mechanically pull his harness over his head with one hand, still inputting commands and guiding the craft down with the other. He managed to get the straps on but didn't bother to buckle them, distracted suddenly by something on the screen that required both of his hands and all of his concentration.

"Ten seconds," he reported, his tense baritone cutting through the noise from spluttering equipment and the rushing atmosphere outside. "Nine…eight…seven…"

Kirk braced himself and glanced at Bones, who was gripping the edges of his seat and had his eyes closed against whatever fate they were speeding down toward. Kirk preferred to stare into the viewscreen as the ground hurtled up at them.

"…four…three…two…"

Then they hit at an angle and Kirk was vaguely aware of the lights going out and the right side of the shuttlecraft caving inward before his harness snapped free and he was catapulted toward the helm, where a panel sparking brilliantly in the darkness stopped him short.


	2. Chapter 2

McCoy coughed as he fought to free himself from his twisted harness. The buckle had gotten bent in the landing and now for the life of him he couldn't get it undone. The smoke that was still pouring into the shuttle's dark interior and his overriding concern for Jim and Spock weren't making the process any easier. After several long seconds of grappling with the damn thing he was able to slide the harness off and stand. Expecting pain or injury, he was surprised to find that he was intact and more or less unharmed.

He saw the gold of Jim's command uniform first, even through the smoke and the darkness. Jim was unconscious on the floor beneath the helm console. McCoy's cursory examination told him that the captain was bleeding from a gash above the ear, but had a strong pulse and no difficulty breathing. In the dark and the haze, though, he might as well have been doing the examination with his eyes closed. He tried to heave the captain up and toward the shuttlecraft's hatch but despite his best effort, he wasn't able to lift him more than a foot or two off the cabin floor. He swore and was trying to get a good grip on Jim to drag him out when he became aware that Spock was crouched beside him.

The Vulcan moved forward and, after a moment of obvious effort, lifted Jim and positioned him over his thin shoulders. He remained crouching, one knee flush against the warped floor. McCoy tried to inspect him for obvious injuries, but with the main lights still out he couldn't see much more than the Vulcan's outline. Smoke was still billowing from the burned out console and thickening the air above their heads. McCoy coughed again and crawled forward to find the hatch. His eyes were watering. He could deal with both Spock and Jim when they were all outside and not all getting suffocated to death in the shuttlecraft. He found the hatch easily but when he pressed the opening sequence, it remained closed. Quivered, but remained closed. McCoy punched in the sequence again, this time with a little more force and a little more frustration. Spock's burdened presence was impatient behind him. When the hatch didn't open, he called back, "It's stuck."

Spock crawled up to join him. "I will force it open," he said. His voice was hoarse. "Operate the controls."

McCoy acquiesced and the Vulcan dug his fingers into the hatch and began to tear it open, straining against the crumpled wall of the ship. Several tense moments passed, and McCoy punched the code again. This time, the hatch opened with a hiss that matched McCoy's sigh of relief. The ramp to the ground remained in place, but at this point McCoy couldn't've cared less. He tumbled out before Spock, righted himself, and braced himself to receive Jim's limp body. Spock passed it down to him, and he laid Jim down on the ground as quickly and as carefully as he could. Spock pushed himself out of the hatch, landing heavily on the rocky dirt and falling to one knee beside Jim. He braced himself with closed fists against the ground, but wavered.

Instinctively, McCoy reached out for him, steadying him with a hand on his arm while Spock slowly straightened up. The Vulcan was trembling, and McCoy mentally kicked himself for not investigating his injuries earlier, not that they'd had much time to do so in the shuttlecraft. Spock's arm was tensed beneath his fingertips. "Are you hurt, Spock?" he asked.

At this, the Vulcan brushed his hand away. "I am in no danger," he said. "Please. Attend to Jim."

McCoy sighed, mildly frustrated. "I'm pretty sure neither is Jim," he said. Spock's single-minded devotion to Jim, coupled with hereditary Vulcan stubbornness, made him an impossible patient. McCoy had also just realized that he'd left his medkit, scanner, and medical tricorder aboard the _Galileo_. He stood and said, by way of explanation, "I'll need my equipment."

Spock jerked as if to stand, and for a moment pain flashed across his face. "I will—"

"No, you won't," McCoy decided, and without waiting for an answer hoisted himself up into the shuttlecraft. With the hatch open it was lighter and less smoky than before, but still oppressively hot and hardly comfortable. McCoy gave up holding his breath relatively quickly, but soon found his medikit and tricorder—well, someone's tricorder, anyway, which would have to suffice—lodged between two of the crumpled seats.

He dropped out of the shuttlecraft to find Spock hunched over Jim with his fingers at the captain's jugular, taking his pulse. The Vulcan's back was to McCoy, but his protective stance almost made the doctor smile. "Spock," he said softly, "it's my turn." Spock started, which just showed further that he wasn't at a hundred percent, and retreated away from Jim's body. McCoy would deal with him as soon as he had Jim taken care of. He supposed he should feel lucky that there had only been three of them aboard the _Galileo_ when it'd crashed, but somehow thinking of all the bodies he didn't have to treat only made him worry more about the two he did.

Whirring the scanner over Jim's still body, he determined with relief that the worst the captain had to be concerned about was a concussion, some bruising, and an ugly laceration on his left shoulder. Nothing delightful, of course, but nothing life-threatening. He wrapped a bandage from the medkit around Jim's damaged shoulder and administered stimulant, antibiotic, and painkilling hypos. Spock watched him intently, and when McCoy sat back to wait for Jim to come around, the Vulcan asked in the most worried voice he'd heard Spock use in a while—not that that was saying much, "How is he, Doctor?"

"He'll be fine," McCoy said.

Jim blinked a few times and groaned. Then he opened his eyes, squinted against the light coming in through the clouds, and lifted his head slightly. Then he started to sit up. McCoy was immediately behind him to support him, but Jim pushed him away and sat up under his own power with a grimace and a grunt.

"We crashed," he said, when he was fully upright.

McCoy rolled his eyes, but he was relieved that Jim had awoken without any complications. "In terms of stating the obvious," he said, "sometimes I think you'd even give Spock a run for his money."

"What…happened?" Kirk asked. "You're all right? Spock's all right?"

"I'm all right, you're all right, Spock carried you out of the shuttlecraft but I've yet to—" He glanced behind him, wondering suddenly why Spock hadn't interjected with his own opinion. Spock was sitting stiffly but patiently, with his eyes shut, and what was almost a grimace tightening his too-pale face. Shit, McCoy thought. He'd been so caught up in Jim that it hadn't occurred to him how badly Spock might be hurt. He turned away from Jim abruptly to wave the scanner in the Vulcan's direction. Spock opened his eyes and looked around coherently when he heard the device's whirring sound, but what McCoy found unnerved him. "Good God, Spock."

Jim joined them, wincing at the movement but steady. Since Spock was sitting and McCoy was kneeling beside him, Jim settled onto the ground beside them both. "What's wrong?" he asked.

McCoy read the results right off his tricorder. "Broken ankle, two cracked ribs, contusions all along the right side of the body, burns on the hand and arm, basal body temperature too low, Vulcan metabolism working overtime and drastically diminished." He started to pull the appropriate supplies from the medkit. Jim bit his lip and hovered like a mother hen.

"I was essentially unrestrained when we struck the ground," Spock said blandly.

"And you _carried_ me out of there?" Kirk asked.

Spock nodded. "Under the circumstances it was both logical and my duty."

"Spock," Jim said.

McCoy busied himself with pulling the appropriate materials from the medkit. Antibiotic and painkiller hypos, the materials for a splint, a spray applicator for the burn. He administered the hyposprays first, then, while Spock held his hand out and watched intently, covered the burn. He then set about splinting Spock's leg. The Vulcan remained sitting rigidly through the ordeal, staring straight ahead with his jaw clenched and bracing himself against the ground with his hands. Partway through Jim excused himself to examine the inside of the shuttlecraft. Spock seemed to appreciate this attempt at affording him privacy, and after a few moments closed his eyes and kept them shut.

McCoy worked as efficiently as he could, but given the relative lack of equipment he found the job frustrating, and he felt guilty at the amount of pain he had to be causing Spock. The Vulcan hadn't opened his eyes again, but he twitched almost imperceptibly when McCoy had to shift his limb too much or give a particularly hard tug on the bandages. When he had finished with Spock's leg, he made Spock pull off his shirt and moved on to wrapping the Vulcan's ribs. Finally, and not a moment too soon—for the both of them—he was done. Shivering, Spock gingerly tugged his shirt back on. McCoy had to respect the Vulcan's stoicism but was getting worried that Spock hadn't said anything since Jim left.

"Spock," he tried.

Spock looked at him, face unreadable.

"Are you all right?"

Spock nodded. After a moment, McCoy could see his shoulders relax. "Thank you, Doctor."

Whether by coincidence or because he'd been watching them, Jim exited the shuttlecraft at that moment. He looked wan but in decent enough shape. He was carrying several items in a large canvas-looking bag, which he set down on the ground.

"Whatcha got there?" McCoy asked.

"Everything I could salvage," Kirk said. "Believe me, it's not much."

"Supplies?" Spock asked.

Jim hesitated before speaking, and it was obvious that he was checking the Vulcan over to see how McCoy's treatment had gone. "Water enough for about four days, food for maybe eight, if we're frugal," he replied. "I've also got four phasers, another tricorder, some emergency blankets, and a portable light." He sighed. "Anything that was still connected to shuttle, I left connected."

"Did the shuttle appear at all capable of flight?" Spock asked.

"I don't know, I'm not sure I would be able to tell," Kirk admitted. "You'll probably want to look at it yourself." He glanced at McCoy. "Bones, is he—"

"I am quite all right," Spock insisted, and began to stand. Torn between helping him up and making him sit down, McCoy finally slipped an arm around Spock's waist to support him. Jim moved in to help as well.

"You should be able to put weight on your leg," McCoy told him, "but not for longer than you have to. Don't go running any marathons."

Spock nodded tightly. His jaw and shoulders had clenched again with the effort of standing.

"I'll go in with him," Jim said.

McCoy nodded and transferred Spock, who was leaning more heavily on McCoy than he would probably like to admit, to Jim. As Jim helped Spock up into the hatch, McCoy asked after them, "Anything I can do?"

"Not in here," returned Spock's voice, and then he and Jim disappeared into the darkness of the shuttle.

McCoy folded his arms and waited. He busied himself by looking around at the scenery. It seemed they were in a valley of sorts, a broad, barren one ridged on three sides by distant mountains. The predominant colors of the landscape were tan and gray, with patches of dark brown where scraggly bushes and some sort of moss had managed to survive. The sky was blanketed entirely in thick, gray clouds. From what McCoy remembered, from when Spock had reviewed the mission aboard the ship, the planet—which went by the name Catelus II—was Class M but not home to more than a few species of plants, worms, birds, and something like large badgers. He supposed they were lucky in that the planet's atmosphere was oxygen-dense and that the temperature near the equator, where they had been headed, rarely dropped below four degrees Celsius or rose above fifteen. Of course, they'd have been even luckier to have avoided the damn planet in the first place.

Staring at the sky, McCoy became aware of a small black dot traveling toward them. "Jim!" he called. "Spock! You've got to see this!"

Jim's head emerged first from the hatch. "What is it, Bones?"

"I think it's a ship," McCoy said. "Get Spock out here. I can't tell if it's one of our shuttlecrafts or something else."

Jim disappeared for a moment and reemerged with an obviously interested Spock. The Vulcan peered up at the sky, shielding his eyes against the glare from the clouds with one hand.

"I am unable to ascertain the make of the vessel," Spock said, after the craft had passed by them and continued on a downward path toward the distant mountains. Then he paused, and seemed to be thinking, or, as it turned out, calculating. "The craft did, however, appear to have been on a trajectory to land not far from here. Assuming that it does not deviate from its course, it should land approximately twenty-eight point eight three kilometers from here."

Jim's eyes lit up and he glanced at McCoy. "If it's one of ours," he said, "do you think we could make it?"

"Before they left, Jim? I don't know," McCoy said. "And I'm not sure I want Spock to—"

"I am capable of walking," Spock said tightly. "But captain…we do not know that the ship is one of ours."

"No," Kirk said, "No, of course we don't. How long've we been down here?"

"Forty-seven point three minutes," Spock said.

"We had six hours, so not nearly long enough to have been missed," Kirk said. He sounded troubled. "Unless they saw us being fired on or crashing. Or needed us for some other reason, then they might have come for us early."

Spock nodded. "It might be worth a try."

"But if it's not our ship…" McCoy began.

Spock finished. "It most likely belongs to whomever shot us down."

* * *

Once Spock and Kirk finished examining the shuttlecraft and running a diagnostic on its computers, they sat down with McCoy outside to discuss their options. Spock was not pleased with any of them. Their chances of being found by the _Enterprise_ if they were to wait by the shuttlecraft were astronomically low, as the ship's only method for searching would be to estimate where they should have landed and sweep the entire area on foot without long range sensors, communicators, or the ability to transport. And _that_ was assuming that they were not first shot down by who- or whatever had attacked the _Galileo_.

If he, Kirk, and McCoy were to attempt to meet the craft that had flown above them, they would have to deal with several unpleasant uncertainties: they knew not who piloted the craft, whether it had in fact landed, how long it might stay in one place, or what reception they might gain if they reached it. There was also the fact that the twenty-eight kilometer walk to the site would be...uncomfortable, to say the least. Unfortunately, however, the _Galileo_ would not likely fly again. Several crucial pieces of equipment, as well as the outer and inner hulls, had been damaged in the crash. They would be lucky to lift off at all, and to achieve orbit would be nothing short of one of Dr. McCoy's miracles.

It did not help that the pain was fundamentally distracting, and already sapped him more than he wanted to others to know. But a healing trance for injuries of this severity would take far more time than they had. He simply did not have the luxury.

"Again, Spock, how far are we from where we were supposed to land?" Kirk asked. The captain was sitting cross-legged on Spock's right, while the doctor occupied the space to his left. Kirk's frown had only deepened since they'd begun and he appeared as displeased as Spock felt.

Spock quickly computed the distance. "Approximately twenty-four point two kilometers," he reported, and pointed, "in that direction."

"Which adds credence to the possibility that that ship out there is ours," Kirk said.

"Yes," said Spock.

"But what happens if we get there and it's not our crew?" McCoy asked, as he had been doing each time the ship was mentioned. "I sure as heck don't want them to turn those phasers or torpedoes, or whatever hit us before, on us again."

"They appeared to be some variant of our photon torpedoes," Spock said. The examination of the shuttlecraft's logs had told him as much. "They would certainly obliterate us at a short enough range."

"Oh, really?" McCoy asked. "_Thank _you, Spock."

"Gentlemen," Kirk said.

Both Spock and McCoy looked at him.

"I've decided," Kirk said. "We've been over all of our options ten times now, and as I understand it, we don't have a whole lot to gain by sitting around here. We'll run out of water and food in a few days, and the chances of a search party finding us, twenty-five kilometers off course, without sensors, are not good." He glanced at Spock for confirmation, and Spock nodded. "We can't fly, we can't signal the ship, we can't do anything from here. We're totally powerless. And in light of that," he added, "I don't see that we have a choice. We're going after that ship."

"Jim," McCoy said, disapprovingly.

"Bones, I doubt I like the idea any more than you do, but I like the idea of staying here even less. If anything, we'd be falling into a trap by staying. Whoever fired on us must know that we crashed, and they went through enough trouble to knock us down that they probably won't forget about us."

"They may be on their way, as we speak," Spock added.

Dr. McCoy glowered at him. "Fine," he said, "but say you're right. Do you really think we'll be more protected wandering away from the shuttlecraft? This land is completely open. It's a tundra."

"We will be less easy to locate, especially if the other ship must also function without long-range sensors," Spock pointed out. The glare that Dr. McCoy gave him would have, metaphorically, curdled milk.

The doctor turned on Kirk, who anticipated his tirade with an almost bemused expression that seemed to anger the doctor even more. "Well what about Spock?" McCoy demanded. "What if he can't make it, Jim? He might be in no condition to shoot a phaser, let alone pilot a shuttlecraft—and what if it isn't ours? We won't be able to come back—"

"But we can't stay here," Kirk said. He was grim again, and stared at Spock for a few second before addressing him, "Are you up to this?"

Spock set his mouth in a thin line. "I am ready," he replied. Vulcan pain control techniques would keep the agony at bay and allow him to make the journey, though he knew it would not be pleasant and had to quash any trepidation relating only to the pain. "I suggest we leave soon."

"Jim, this plan-" McCoy tried again.

"I've decided," Kirk said. "I'm sorry, Bones. We need to leave." He looked at both of his officers. Then he stood, and his tone was all business. "Bones. You and I will carry any supplies we need. Start gathering them and we'll divvy them up before we leave." He turned to Spock. "Spock, get anything you want to bring and give it to me. I don't want you carrying anything heavier than a tricorder. Gentlemen," he said, "you have ten minutes."

"Yes, sir," Spock said. He stood, then, and managed to wince only minimally. For a moment he stared out into the distance, where their only hope—or perhaps their end—awaited them. Then he shook his head to avail himself of such illogical thoughts, and set about gathering supplies.

* * *

_Reviews appreciated!_


	3. Chapter 3

They had been walking for about two hours when Kirk was forced to acknowledge the first twinges of self-doubt. He knew that if he had one weakness, it was to need to feel in control of a situation...even if that meant dragging his injured first officer and CMO on a probably fruitless, nearly thirty kilometer trek away from their only point of relative safety. Was it possible that he had pulled them away from the shuttlecraft simply to feel like he was doing _something_? No, he decided. It couldn't be. He was a better commander than that. He'd trusted to his intuition, which had told him, quite plainly, that they needed to get away from the _Galileo_. Harboring doubt of this sort was unproductive at best. It wasn't as if he was going to turn back or even mention his misgivings.

What the doubt did make him realize, though, was that if something were to happen to Spock or Bones, it would be entirely his fault. So? his mind countered. Don't let anything happen. Do everything in your power to make sure nothing happens.

Their progress was slower than Kirk would have preferred, but it was also faster than he had expected. Spock, of course, was setting the pace. The Vulcan had phasered a bent piece of piping from the _Galileo_ to use as a walking stick, but he still couldn't move at more than a slow, halting gait. Just the sight of his heavy limping made Kirk cringe. Lately, he'd found himself inadvertently charging ahead of his officers and having to wait for them to catch up at Spock's pace. He doubted that they'd traveled more than eight or ten kilometers.

Always the devoted doctor, Bones remained staunchly at Spock's side. At first, he had asked Spock every few minutes how he was doing, often pulling out his medical scanner only to frown at the results, put it back, and ask Spock about his condition again. The doctor had only eased up when Spock had told him, in a strained voice, that he would gladly inform the doctor if his condition changed but that in the mean time, McCoy was contributing more effectively to his mental distress than were the injuries. This had shut Bones up for a while, but any time Kirk glanced back he could see that McCoy was watching the Vulcan carefully.

McCoy interrupted his musing by calling up to him, "Jim! Hold up for a second." Kirk turned around. Both McCoy and Spock had halted a few feet behind him. McCoy was standing close to Spock, one hand resting protectively on the Vulcan's arm. "Spock needs rest," Bones proclaimed. Spock neither affirmed this comment nor disagreed with it, though Kirk supposed that Spock's lack of argument was an answer of its own. He searched his first officer's face, but Spock's Vulcan mask was tightly in place. Maybe a little too tightly. Kirk felt a new flare of concern, but dampened it down and forced a smile.

"I'll take your word for it, Doctor," he said. In any case, his own head and shoulder ached enough that he couldn't mind a break, no matter how much time they lost. "Right here?"

"Unless there's another patch of dirt that strikes your fancy."

Kirk shook his head. "Not at all, Bones."

"Come on, Spock," McCoy muttered. "Let's sit down."

Kirk waited for an unconvincing assertion that Spock was fully capable of sitting without the doctor's assistance, but none came. The Vulcan only nodded wearily and allowed McCoy to support him on the way to the ground. He slipped the last few inches, however, and landed heavily, an uncontrollable grimace slipping through his emotionless veneer. Kirk's worry for his first officer flared again, and this time he didn't try to suppress it. He started forward to assist them, though by the time he arrived McCoy had already helped Spock to situate himself. The Vulcan sat with his splinted leg stretched out before him and his right arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. His eyes had closed.

Kirk stared down at his friend before looking up to ask Bones, "How is he?"

"Well, he's not _good_," Bones said. His tone softened. "I'll know more soon." He pulled the medical scanner out of his pack and let it hum by Spock's head for a few seconds. Spock glanced up at the doctor, and Kirk could see something, an understanding of some kind, pass between them. Then McCoy shook his head and turned back to Kirk. "He's not really worse physically, Jim, but the pain readings are…high. Really high. Remember Deneva?"

Kirk nodded and chewed on his lip, wishing that he could do something, anything, to take away Spock's pain. How could he forget Deneva? He'd lost his brother and nearly lost Spock too, in more ways than one. "That bad?"

"Gentleman, I am still here," Spock cut in. He deep voice was husky, but he sounded cogent and in control of himself. But of course, Kirk thought. Why had he expected anything different? Spock went on. "And…no, Captain. The pain is not yet 'that bad.' I doubt I shall ever experience anything _that_ bad again." He took a deep breath. "At the moment, I am capable of continuing our journey."

"Oh, shut up," McCoy said. Kirk's eyebrows shot up in surprise and bemusement and when he looked at the doctor, Bones shrugged. "Spock isn't continuing anywhere for at _least_ fifteen minutes," he explained, folding his arms and glaring at Spock, who met his gaze with feigned, wide-eyed innocence. Kirk felt a surge of affection for both of them. Now McCoy was shaking his head. "Don't let that Vulcan bravado fool you, Jim."

"Noted, Doctor," Kirk said. "Let's sit."

McCoy acquiesced and they joined Spock on the pale, rock-studded dirt. On his knees beside the Vucan, McCoy rifled through his medikit and began to prepare a hypospray. Kirk found himself unable to keep from watching Spock, as if close scrutiny might keep any unpleasantness at bay, and did so until the Vulcan met his gaze and raised an eyebrow. "Captain," Spock said gravely, "I assure you. I am quite all right."

"He's lying, Jim."

Now Kirk couldn't help but smile at the doctor's automatic, and no doubt unappreciated, intrusion. "I thought Vulcans didn't lie, Spock," he joked.

The hard lines of Spock's pain-tensed face relaxed for a moment, and he said with a smirk in his voice, "Captain, I think you would be surprised at what my father's people are capable of." Somber again, he turned to McCoy. "Doctor, the pain still exists. My statement, however, is not inaccurate. Simply…resting has allowed me to regain control over it. I _am _'all right.' What was that?" McCoy had jabbed the hypo he'd been preparing into Spock's shoulder and released it with a hiss.

"General painkiller," he said. Then, "Jim. You too."

"Me?" Kirk asked.

"Your head is still killing you," McCoy informed him. Kirk nodded genially and offered his unhurt shoulder for the hypo. A few moments later, the pounding in his head had dulled to better than bearable and his torn shoulder was movable without more than a twinge of pain. His various bruises felt less tender as well. Already Bones had gone back to fussing over Spock. Seeing that he wasn't needed, Kirk sat back and considered their immediate future.

Even if the ship wasn't theirs—and even without hearing Spock's calculation of the odds, he knew it was unlikely—it belonged to someone, and had to've landed where it did for a reason. There had to be something there, something to work with. Whatever the case, Kirk determined silently, he would find a way to get them off this planet. He'd done crazier things in his command than steal a ship or storm a hostile community with only his phaser.

He became aware after a little while that Bones was trying to catch his eye. When he met the doctor's gaze, McCoy sighed. Kirk waited for him to speak, aware that McCoy only started bad news and arguments this way. McCoy said, "Look, Jim, I know it's too late for us to turn back, and I'm not asking you to. But…I have to ask this." Kirk nodded for him to continue. "What in the name of God are we going to do if we get to that site and it isn't our ship?"

Spock surprised them both by answering. He had been sitting back with eyes shut, not moving, but opened them now and leaned forward to say, "Doctor, we will do whatever must be done."

Kirk shrugged an agreement, Bones looked away, and, for a short time at least, they allowed silence to fall between them.

* * *

They began to walk again almost as soon as Dr. McCoy sanctioned Spock "rested." Even so, Spock could sense the doctor's frustration, couched as it was in his incessant hovering. He believed he understood it. Dr. McCoy did not like to see his patients out of his control any more than the captain liked to see his ship—or its officers, or his friends—out of his. McCoy wanted to see Spock laid out on a biobed in Sickbay pajamas with a strong analgesic and a bone knitter just as much as Kirk wanted him strong, fit for duty, and ready for whatever they might encounter. Though both scenarios were unlikely to occur any time soon, Spock thought that the two seemed at odds around him. Fortunately, Spock understood, they were too strongly united by friendship, common goals, and their strong if rather discomfiting concern for his well-being to be driven apart by other means.

Of course, as much as he appreciated his friends' concern, Spock preferred not to be hovered over. This was especially true when the hoverers were powerless to change the situation and could therefore do nothing but frustrate him. Even more so, he disliked the guilt and helplessness that radiated from both Kirk and McCoy when neither could alleviate his pain. The captain had developed a habit of staring unabashedly at him as he limped along, while Dr. McCoy still attempted to surreptitiously to check his vital signs and pain with the scanner at nine- or ten-minute intervals.

As a result of such combined mothering, Spock found himself directing a disproportionate amount of energy toward appearing, as best he could, to be "all right." As such he kept his face carefully neutral through the agony of pressing his right foot to the ground, and allowing the broken joint to hold his weight as he pushed off again against the uneven dirt, even as repetition increased the pain. He made sure to respond to Kirk and McCoy when they spoke. He used Vulcan techniques to disconnect himself from the feeling as best he could, reminding himself in mantra form that pain was a thing of the mind and that the mind could be controlled. _I am a Vulcan. There is no pain_.

He could not, however, help but limp deeply, and the trembling of his weary limbs proved beyond the power of his Vulcan control. He was aware that he was severely compromised and that his debility was only growing. He was becoming increasingly, and disturbingly dizzy, and the lightheadedness that plagued him made his reactions that much more difficult to control. He had also begun to stumble over small rocks and uneven areas in their path, too wearied by the pain to avoid them. Though he had not yet fallen, he realized that he probably would have had not Dr. McCoy's hands quickly found and supported him at each slip. Spock was grateful for the doctor's aid and relative silence, but he feared that in the face of more pain he would lose consciousness and become an insupportable burden on both of his friends.

His internal time sense told him that seventy-three point five minutes had passed since they had resumed walking when he became aware of something humming. He stopped abruptly, curious and concerned but for the moment unable to find the energy to explain his sudden halt to either McCoy or the captain.

"Spock, what's wrong?" McCoy said immediately, and a few feet ahead of them Kirk turned around.

Spock forced himself to stop wincing. He leaned heavily on his piping and tried to keep his uninjured leg from trembling too much under his weight. Then he glanced around, looking for the source of the noise. "I hear…something," he said finally, and paused. His voice was rougher than he had wanted or expected it to be. He went on. "A hum," he said. "Like the sound of a working engine."

"What do you think it is?" Kirk asked urgently.

Spock shook his head slightly. "I do not know," he admitted.

"Can you tell where it's coming from?"

Spock closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate. Fortunately, the hum was growing louder, and he was able to point toward it with one hand, almost directly back the way they had come.

"I see something!" McCoy exclaimed. Spock opened his eyes. "Look, Jim. Something's coming our way. Just above the ground. Might be a hovercraft of some sort."

"Maybe more than one," Kirk said. He too stared intently across the tundra.

They waited for a little while, hardly moving. As the objects approached, it became apparent that two of them were hovercrafts, of different shapes and models but both of the sort used to travel short distances across land. Between them, apparently suspended by a tractor beam, was the crumpled carcass of a Class F Federation shuttlecraft.

"Is that…?" Kirk asked.

Spock nodded.

"Then we have to get out of their way," Kirk said decisively. "It must be whoever shot us down. We have to hide until they've passed."

"Yeah, Jim, but how?" McCoy demanded, looking wildly around at their surroundings. "Where? We're in the middle of a damn tundra. There's nothing but dirt and rocks and bushes for miles around."

"And _ghembapt_," Spock remembered suddenly. At the doctor's confusion he elaborated, "Similar to your Earth badgers, only larger. We have passed several of their burrows."

McCoy's exasperation threatened to explode to the surface, but Kirk only shook his head at the doctor and asked, "What's your point, Spock?"

"The last burrow that we passed is approximately forty meters in that direction." He pointed, arm now at an angle to the direction from which they had come, and from which the hovercrafts still approached. He felt dizzy, unsteady, and had to fight down the pain and nausea that had accompanied his rapid movement before he could explain his plan. "If we travel with haste I believe that we will reach it before we are visible to the hovercrafts, and we can hide ourselves within."

"Well, then, what are we waiting for?" McCoy said. The doctor surprised Spock by tugging one of Spock's arms over his own narrow shoulders and saying, in his most commanding voice: "Jim, help me." Kirk complied wordlessly, taking Spock's walking stick and pulling Spock's right arm over his own broader shoulders. Spock found that he lacked the ability to protest. His head was spinning.

"Ready?" Kirk asked.

Spock tried to answer in the affirmative, but apparently the question had not been directed at him. Dr. McCoy nodded and then they were off, jogging as fast as they could with Spock dangling between them. Spock attempted to limp or hop, but the jarring pain took its toll quickly, as his ribs stretched and his ankle slapped against the unyielding ground. He willed himself to take the punishment in silence, though he seemed no longer to be in control of his muscles at all. A roaring filled his ears and he felt his mind detach.

He was therefore only dimly cognizant of being lowered and slid foot-first, on his stomach, into some recess in the ground (a _ghembapt _burrow, some distant part of his mind supplied). He heard but could not quite interpret the words: "There isn't room for both of us. You stay with Spock. I'll hide myself in the bushes." "No, Jim—" "That's an order, Doctor. Stay with Spock. I'll cover both of you." Then he felt something warm and substantial settle close beside him. Something much lighter and scratchier and earthier came to rest upon his shoulders and head. A few moments of blessed stillness went by. Then, as Kirk and McCoy's exchange began to percolate his mind, he realized that he must offer his place in the hole to the captain and tried to pull himself toward the surface. But arms stronger at the moment than his wrapped around him and held him in place even as he struggled. Then pain flared again in his ribs and ankle, and the renewed agony sent his mind skittering, once again, into darkness.

When he fully awoke it was to the hiss of a hypospray. Several minutes had passed. He immediately regretted having lost consciousness—a failing of his human half, no doubt—and replayed the last few minutes' events in his brain. He remembered being placed into the _ghembapt_ burrow with McCoy, and being covered, and attempting to escape. He knew that McCoy had held him and kept him from moving. Jim had been… Jim had not been with them. Jim had left them to conceal himself elsewhere.

Spocks' eyes flew open and he grabbed McCoy's arm with a shaking hand, pulling the startled doctor closer. "Jim," he requested urgently. "Where is Jim?"

McCoy shook his head and winced, and Spock released his grip, realizing that he had probably bruised the doctor's arm. "They got him," McCoy said thickly. Spock then understood that the doctor had not been reacting to Spock's grip. Instead he could sense a deeper, more fundamental pain. McCoy went on. "I don't know who they were or where they were going or what in God's name they wanted, but they came up in those hovercrafts and saw him. Stunned him without even getting out, then jumped out, picked 'im up and threw him in the back of one. They looked around a little but didn't see us, despite _your_ best efforts at announcing our hiding spot."

Spock blinked in acknowledgment of the doctor's weary accusation but offered no comment.

McCoy went on. "Then they just kept going the way we were going. _Galileo_ in tow."

Spock nodded, and tried to sit up. McCoy helped him.

"I pulled you out of the hole and gave you a stimulant, just now," McCoy said. "Fourth-to-last painkiller too, since it looked like you needed it."

"Thank you, Doctor."

McCoy seemed to leer for a moment, but the expression was tinged so heavily with worry and fear that Spock could read no ill will in it. Then the doctor sighed. "So, Spock," he said. "You are the commanding officer now."

Spock nodded.

"Got any great ideas?"

Spock did not answer for a moment, forcing instead himself to calm, ignore the pain, and discover the logic of the situation. Worry, anger, fear and discomfort were luxuries that he could not afford. "Obviously," he said slowly, "we must locate and rescue the captain." A surge of pain through his ankle clenched his teeth for a moment, but soon passed. "Then," he said, "we will need to discover a route of escape from this planet."

"Oh," McCoy replied, and dragged dirt-smeared hands across his face. "Is that all?"


	4. Chapter 4

McCoy was beginning to feel that things could not possibly get any worse. He supposed that that was an overstatement. It could start raining, after all, or Spock could raise that damn insufferable eyebrow of his, or they could stumble across Jim's body somewhere along this godforsaken tundra of a planet. Or the hovercrafts could come back and take them too, or Spock could finally collapse and leave McCoy with the unattractive choice between finding Jim and keeping one stubborn Vulcan from self-destruction (not that that would be much of a change). He wasn't without imagination. But the hopelessness that had begun to befall him, the knowledge that, barring a miracle, they probably _weren't_ going to be able to save Jim or even return to the _Enterprise, _no matter how hard they tried…surely that could not grow worse. Surely he couldn't feel any more hopeless than he did now. And hell. How was that not the point at which things couldn't get worse?

He shook his head at his own brand of logic as he scanned the dirt and scrub for Spock's walking stick, which Spock claimed Jim had dropped while they were running for the badger hole. Or whatever the hell the creature was called. Problem was, he had only Spock's general idea of the way they'd come to guide him toward it, and it was a small piece of piping in a large and vastly repetitive landscape. He almost regretted ordering Spock, in his best doctor voice, of course, to stay where he was until McCoy found it. At least Spock pretended to have some idea where the damn thing might've fallen.

But in all honesty McCoy was nearly as worried about Spock as he was about Jim. Maybe, though it made no sense, even more so. He knew that the Vulcan would not, and could not, hold up much longer. Spock needed to rest as much as Jim needed to be searched for. His first catatonic, and then nearly delirious, states following their flight to the badger burrow betrayed how close he had to be to simply losing it. The whole affair in the burrow had been too real and far too close. McCoy wasn't ashamed to admit to himself that it had left him feeling deeply disturbed. In some way, he thought, he loved Spock as much as he hated him. And now he was afraid that Spock wouldn't think twice about sacrificing himself to get Jim back, whether the sacrifice proved necessary or not. Of course, he _was_ also worried about Jim, and very much so. But no matter when or how this sort of thing happened, he realized that he always felt less protective of Jim. Concerned, sure, out of his mind with worry, yes, but still more secure in the belief that Jim could, did, and probably always would be able to take care of himself. He rubbed at his forehead. Illogical, that's what he was. If there was one person he'd yet to worry about, it was himself.

Perhaps thirty or thirty-five meters from where he'd left Spock sitting by the badger hole he saw the glint of metal among the rocks and shrubs. He walked over to it and sure enough, it was Spock's abandoned walking stick. Still far too agitated to feel more than mildly pleased with himself, he lifted it up so that the Vulcan could see it and then started to jog back toward him.

"Found it," he said unnecessarily when he was close enough to hand it to him.

"Thank you, Doctor," Spock said.

McCoy remained standing somewhat awkwardly, wondering if he should join Spock on the ground or how soon Spock would insist on leaving. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do. He settled for folding his arms and asking, "Well, Spock, what now?"

The Vulcan blinked up at him but made no attempt to move. "Obviously," Spock said, "we must leave immediately."

"I hardly think that's obvious," McCoy said, only half in reflexive reaction to the word "obviously." They could afford to wait a little while. Spock needed rest, and in any case, it probably wouldn't make a difference if they arrived at the site two hours from now or two hours and fifteen minutes from now. He said as much, and for a few moments Spock seemed deep in thought, and even more deeply ignoring him. "Well?" he prompted.

Spock sighed slightly, and gave him a withering look. "Doctor," he said, "we must rescue the captain. We cannot rescue the captain from here. Therefore, obviously, we must leave." For all his professed impatience, though, Spock didn't budge. It occurred to McCoy that the Vulcan hadn't, in fact, budged at all since McCoy'd pulled him out of the hole twenty minutes ago. McCoy frowned.

"Spock," he said aloud, "you're _obviously_ about to collapse. Therefore, as your doctor, I'm telling you that you need to take it easy. Resting included."

"I am your commanding officer," Spock countered. "I must also point out that given the length of this planet's days, we have approximately two-point-six hours until nightfall and slightly more than twelve kilometers left to traverse. Time _is_ of the essence, Doctor, unless you feel that finding Jim will be easier in the dark."

McCoy crossed his arms, and his frown deepened, but he found that he could think of no good argument. Nothing, at least, that wouldn't just prolong a useless conversation or lead them to a debate about the merits of logic over emotion that he was fairly sure neither of them had the energy for. "Fine, Spock," he conceded. "But don't expect me to be happy about it."

"I had no such expectation," Spock reassured him.

"Oh, shut up," McCoy said without much conviction. He stooped to pick up his pack, which he had abandoned before crawling into the burrow with Spock, and pulled out two containers of water. Unfortunately, Jim's bag and share of the supplies had also been kidnapped, leaving him and Spock short much of their food and the extra phasers, as well as the lantern and all but one of the portable blankets. He handed Spock a container of water and took one for himself. "Drink it," he ordered. "I know better than to try to convince you to eat."

Spock accepted the bottle, and sipped from it without protest. At Spock's weary obedience, McCoy felt his residual anger ebbing away. He watched the Vulcan as he drank from his own bottle. For better or for worse they were in this together, and for once they'd have to make do without Jim's mediation or any of their usual, non-Jim buffers: other crew members, standing orders, even the physical space usually afforded by their separate quarters in the ship. They simply could not afford to squabble. Feeling strangely peaceful for the first time in a while, McCoy inhaled deeply and focused on the sensation of cool, dry air filling his lungs. Then sighed. For better or for worse, he and Spock and Jim were going to get through this somehow. They'd no other choice.

When both he and Spock had drunk their fill, he looked down at the Vulcan. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes, Doctor," Spock said. Then, after a short pause, he added, "Thank you."

McCoy nodded, and though he could not have said exactly what he was being thanked for he thought it felt justified nonetheless. He didn't say anything, though, and bent down to help Spock stand. He knew that after hours of walking, their short sprint and Spock's subsequent rest, the Vulcan would not find it easy to bear weight on his ankle, and McCoy prepared himself to help. He was unprepared, however, for Spock's knees to buckle as soon as he was hauled upright, or for, with a strangled grunt of pain, the Vulcan to pitch forward right into his arms. He caught Spock's lanky body awkwardly in a bear hug, and only just managed not to topple over himself.

"Dammit, Spock," McCoy muttered after a second or two had passed.

"I am sorry," Spock admitted. It had taken this long for him to regain control of himself and attempt feebly to disentangle himself from McCoy's grasp. McCoy let go slowly but, afraid of a repeat performance, encircled the Vulcan's thin waist loosely with his arm. He remembered Spock's touch telepathy and wondered if all of his feelings—worry, fear, frustration, disappointment, all of which had been building up all day and had only just returned to the surface—were being transferred through their contact.

"I believe I can support myself now, Doctor," Spock said.

"Right."

Spock took a deep breath and tightened his grip on his walking stick, which he still held in his right hand, before insisting, "We must continue."

"Right," McCoy said. He didn't remove his arm from around the Vulcan's waist.

"Doctor, your sarcasm is baffling at the best of times."

McCoy felt suddenly very tired, and not at all up to the task of arguing with Spock. "I don't want to see you do that again," he said honestly.

Spock closed his eyes. McCoy could feel the tension thrumming through his body. He could also feel the roughness of the bandages beneath Spock's shirt. Spock looked at him, and he felt a rush of unexpected guilt. Because as long as Jim was missing they _were_ going to keep going, no matter what he said, or thought, they should do. "I shall endeavor to maintain my balance," Spock told him. Spock wouldn't let it happen any other way. But as a doctor, as Spock's friend, shouldn't he be trying harder to slow them down? Not as Jim's friend, he couldn't. As Jim's friend he could see no choice.

McCoy shook his head. He felt at a utterly at a loss for words. "At least let me help you," he said.

He could feel Spock's ribs expand under his forearm as the Vulcan inhaled.

"For God's sakes," McCoy muttered.

But to his surprise, Spock nodded. "Please," he said. "Do not allow me to become a burden."

"You, Spock?" McCoy said as they shuffled forward together, Spock leaning heavily on McCoy's shoulders but still managing to hold his weight. "Never."

Spock accepted his comment silently, and McCoy realized he'd barely been joking.

* * *

Kirk's first sensations upon awaking were of cold and some amount of pain. He had no idea where he was or how long he'd been there or who might've put him there. As his thoughts became clearer he recognized the dizzy, full-body ache that came from being shot by a heavy stun setting. He also became aware, gradually, that he was tied to a cold metal chair and that his clothes were missing. He was situated in the center of a small, harshly-lit room, the walls and floor of which were made of dark, heavy stone. This struck him as terribly anachronous. Everything seemed to be coated in a thin film of dampness and mildew. He could see no windows, nor the hint of light from any. A small black dome attached upside-down to the corner of the ceiling no doubt housed a camera. But the question was, he thought, who was at the viewscreen on the other end?

The bonds that attached him to the chair were made of some synthesized material he didn't recognize and wrapped around his chest, arms, thighs and ankles. This meant that although the chair they attached him to was neither heavy nor bolted to the floor, he could only move by jerking it across the uneven stone tiles of the floor. His hands were useless tied behind his back. But he had to find a way out of here somehow, and he wasn't going to do that from the middle of the room with his back to the door. He managed to turn the chair around in a tight semicircle without getting any of the legs caught on the tiles, and stared at the door. As he'd surmised, it'd been directly behind him. It was a smooth, solid hunk of metal, neither rusted nor worn despite the dank, musty appearance of the rest of the cell. He shimmied the chair an inch or two closer to the door. Examining it would be difficult without the use of his hands, but he figured that at the very least he could get a sense for the materials by lurching against them or feeling them with his foot or elbow. Whether or not there was any air coming in through the doorjamb would indicate what might be outside, and if there was a force field in use.

He had to do _something_.

Of course, he knew that he was unlikely to escape entirely on his own, hampered as he was by his bonds and the fact of the heavy door. But he had to get out somehow, and he had to find Spock and Bones and a way to get them all off this planet. He hoped that they'd been well enough hidden in the burrow to have avoided capture, and more so that they didn't do anything foolish to get themselves captured after the fact. He forced himself to think about the problem at hand, however. He could do nothing for his friends until he was free. He jerked the chair forward another inch, supposing wryly that he'd just have to take one thing at a time. So far, even the unevenness of the floor tiles was proving a difficult obstacle. One in particular foiled him until he resigned himself to edging around it.

By the time he reached the door, he was discouraged and more than a little frustrated at having wasted several minutes on something so trivial. His plan to test the door by kicking it failed as well, for he found himself unable to move his foot far enough from the chair leg to do anything but tap the solid metal with a twitch of his ankle. He tried with his elbows next, since given the way he was tied they protruded a little, but if possible this proved even less efficient. Scowling, he gave up on tapping and tried to place himself close enough to the crack between the door and wall to feel what airflow there might be, but either it was too cold in the room or there was nothing coming through, for he registered nothing. So much for a plan.

It occurred to him that he'd yet to really test his bonds, though he knew his chances of breaking them with strength alone were slim. Still, trying them was better than not trying them, and so he set about straining at each one until his muscles felt rubbery and he was panting. His efforts had had no effect, and it was obvious that whoever had tied him down had tied him down well. He examined the bonds themselves, and concluded that they had been manufactured to serve as just that. The material was unyielding but pliable. Their differentiated shapes, each apparently made to fit a different part of the body, implied that his captors were used to humanoid prisoners. That they were used to prisoners in general was evident from the strength and modernity of the cell door.

But who did that make them? he wondered. Neither the Klingons or Romulans had any reason to be on the planet, as it was deep in Federation space and strategically useless, far from any high-profile Federation planets. There were no useful resources on the planet. And what would be the logic in building a base on a planet that blocked subspace transmissions? Even if either empire did have a good reason to be here, though, there would be no sense in their building a jail—a _stone_ jail, for that matter, equipped for humanoids—on its surface. Who could they imprison? As far as Kirk knew, no one had visited the planet in years, and even travelers through the sector were rare. Could he have been removed from the planet? He supposed it was possible, but still made no sense. Why would anyone have been on the planet to take him in the first place?

He sighed. He felt cold, and decided that the information he _really_ wanted was what had happened to his uniform. Unfortunately, though he waited, no one appeared to volunteer the information. He realized, with a sense of heavy resignation, that he might be here a while before he got any answers or any chance to escape. He settled as comfortably into the cold metal chair as he could and resigned himself to wait.

* * *

On the surface, night fell with surprising rapidity. Leaning more heavily on McCoy than ever and stumbling mechanically over rocks and uneven dirt, because he could no longer do anything else, Spock calculated that they were just over one kilometer from the landing site. In all, they had traversed twenty-seven-point-one kilometers, and the journey had taken them just over six hours. Earlier in the day, Spock had hoped that they would reach the landing site before the sun set completely, but as the journey had stretched on he had been unable to keep the necessary pace. Every moment engulfed him in pain. His control slipped further and further from him as the hours passed. He could no longer keep from grimacing, the ugly expression tugging at both his face and McCoy's compassion. He felt the doctor's emotion starkly through their physical contact, the experience heightened by the fact that the pain was eroding his mental shields, surely and relentlessly. Though they were long past their scheduled rendezvous with the _Enterprise_, they had seen no sign of the ship, nor any of its crew.

Dr. McCoy mumbled a curse as he walked first into a cluster of knee-high bushes that the darkness had concealed from sight. Spock reached them within one step. The lattice of twigs caught his splint and only McCoy kept them both from falling as he jerked with the unexpected pain. His eyes closed of their own accord and he gritted his teeth, aware that if he waited the agony would subside to a tolerable level. He had no energy to spare for speech, though when McCoy asked softly (concern flaring through their mental link), "Spock, are you all right?" he nodded heavily. With McCoy's help he disentangled himself from the bush, and they started again. He took another painful step, and another, and another, and another. He felt irrationally that he would never stop walking.

"Spock," McCoy was saying. "Spock." The doctor had ceased to move forward, and so, dependent upon him as he was, Spock halted as well.

"Yes," he managed hoarsely. "Doctor."

"Let's stop," McCoy said.

"Jim—" he protested.

"Jim," McCoy muttered. Frustration surged through the link, but Spock understood that it was mostly self-directed. The doctor sighed wearily before continuing. "Spock, it's dark. Obviously I can't see a thing, and neither can you. It's dangerous. Not to mention I don't want to see you go on like this. Let's stop, and let's rest, and let's not go any further until the morning."

"We cannot," Spock began, but realized that the tables had turned. He had no argument, no logic to counter McCoy's. He could not win. With the recognition of this fact, the very idea that he could think of relief as more than an indulgent fantasy, he felt himself beginning to slide downward and onto McCoy. Finally he allowed himself to relax and McCoy to lower him, carefully, to the ground. He allowed himself to lay back. "Dawn in four-point-five hours," he mumbled. "Wake me, Doctor. I will take watch in two. Wake me."

"Sure, Spock," McCoy lied.

Spock's thoughts swam sluggishly. He knew that he should muster the energy to meditate or slip into a healing trance, but he found that the necessary concentration eluded him. He also found himself too exhausted by constant strain to fend off the encroaching blackness. Perhaps, he realized in a disconnected sort of way, he was simply losing consciousness...passing out. McCoy placed something over him, and tucked it around him. Spock recognized their lone emergency blanket and wanted to protest, but the doctor had already moved a foot or two away to sit, his knees drawn up to his chest, to stare into the darkness that surrounded them. Spock's mind drifted into sleep.

He awoke nearly five hours later to a voice he had never heard before.

* * *

_Author's note: Just wanted to thank everyone who has read this far, favorited, or alert-ed this story. As always, I really appreciate both encouragement and criticism—the latter especially. Obviously, this story is a work in progress, and any and all suggestions will be considered. I've even been known to edit chapters after they've been posted!_


	5. Chapter 5

"Get up," the voice ordered from somewhere behind him. "Get up and drop your weapons."

Spock opened his eyes and found himself staring up at the cloudy early morning sky. He was still wrapped in the emergency blanket. Now he sat up as quickly as he could, pushing the blanket away and forcing himself to disregard the pain of injuries that had stiffened overnight. _Where was McCoy?_ With a shot of concern he twisted to look behind him and realized, with considerable relief, that the doctor was alive, seemingly unharmed, and standing silently beside their visitor. His arms were bound in front of him and he was scowling at the man who now addressed Spock.

The man, Spock decided, was either human or humanoid, though mostly covered in heavy civilian clothing. He was neither very old nor young, though Spock found his age difficult to estimate. Tall and muscular, the man moved with the ease of one who is used to higher gravity. Apparently, not of this world. More important, however, was the large disruptor rifle the man now pointed down at him. Wherever this man was from, he had access to weapons not for sale to Federation citizens. "Now," the man said, and strode forward.

Spock tensed in preparation of more pain, but McCoy spoke and halted the man's forward movement. "Stop!" the doctor called. "That man is injured. You can't just make him 'get up.'" Without warning, the man turned swiftly and rammed the butt of his disruptor into McCoy's stomach. The doctor grunted with pain and doubled over, pressing the backs of his bound arms against his abdomen. His eyes squeezed shut and he bared his teeth at the man. "To hell with you," he gasped. A second jab caught him in the jaw and he choked into silence.

Spock kept his face impassive, though inwardly he felt disturbed by what he had seen, and addressed the man. He hoped that McCoy, who was just now straightening up and looking both shuttered and murderous, would put up no more fight. "I will comply," he said. "There is no further need for violence."

"I'll decide that," the man said. He strode over to Spock once more, letting go of the disruptor with one hand to pull something out of his belt. Spock recognized the soft handcuffs binding McCoy's wrists. "Hands out," he ordered gruffly.

Spock held his arms up toward the man, wrists close together, his fingers curled loosely. He could not logically resist now. The man grabbed his wrists roughly and slipped the hand restraints around them. The vaguely golden material constricted immediately to the size of his wrists, effectively binding them together. He held them up to examine the alien latticework. "Fascinating."

The man responded by clubbing him below the left eye with the disruptor rifle. Spock wondered hazily through the pain that erupted in his skull if the man ever used his disruptor as anything but a cudgel, but elected not to ask. Instead he maintained a neutral expression as the man bent down and ripped his phaser and useless communicator from his belt, stowing them in one of his several pockets. Then he grasped Spock by the bound wrists and hauled him upright with one thick arm. Agony flooded Spock's senses through his ribs and jarred ankle and he fell back to his knees, fighting to keep his expression bland as the blood left his face. Nausea arose in him with an urgent intensity that he just barely managed to subdue.

"Easy with him, dammit!" McCoy yelled, unwisely stepping toward them. Fear that McCoy would endanger himself again served as the impetus Spock needed to regain control of his pain-wracked body. Unfortunately, though Spock straightened, McCoy continued to speak and approach them. "I don't care who you think you are. I'm a doctor, and I'm telling you that this man is in no—augh." He dropped to his knees beside Spock, coughing and groaning. The man had slammed the back end of the heavy disruptor into his chest. Now, the man looked down at both of them with shameless contempt.

Then he pulled an unfamiliar communicator from his belt and flipped it open. "I've got the two Starfleet cuffed here," he said. "They're not putting up a fight. I'm walking them over now." He received confirmation and flipped his communicator shut. Spock wondered at the significance of the exchange. The man had spoken about them as if he had expected to find the two of them-"the two Starfleet." He supposed that the information could have come from Kirk, though he believed it unlikely that his captain would voluntarily disclose their existence. Of course, he knew well that many methods of interrogation could not be resisted. The Mind-sifter came immediately to mind.

The man pointed his disruptor rifle at McCoy. The doctor eyed the weapon warily. "Up," the man ordered, gesturing with the barrel.

McCoy glared, pain still evident on his features. "Why should I—" he began.

"Doctor," Spock interrupted urgently, and McCoy fell silent. "I believe we have no choice."

McCoy met his eyes, then slowly and gingerly climbed to his feet. He still clasped his bound arms protectively over his chest, and stared savagely at their captor. His anger was palpable.

"Now you," the man said, aiming the disruptor at Spock. Aware that he was without another option, Spock stood laboriously. His ankle and ribs throbbed steadily and for a moment he reeled, dizzy once more, fighting a deep frustration with what he could not change. Despite this he managed to stand still, his back straight, and waited with ostensible patience for their captor to make his move. McCoy caught his gaze again, and this time Spock was aware that the doctor was asking him wordlessly if he were all right. Spock nodded slightly in response, and McCoy's eyes dropped.

Apparently content with Spock and McCoy's compliance, their captor shouldered McCoy's pack and positioned himself behind them. He trained the disruptor rifle on the space between McCoy's shoulder blades, and the doctor frowned deeply but did not try to edge away. Then the man shifted so that it was aimed squarely at Spock's back. Perhaps he recognized that McCoy would be less likely to fight if by doing so, he would endanger Spock's life. "Neither of you talk," the man said. "Do as I say. Run and you'll be shot."

Spock nodded solemnly. McCoy's face hardened.

"Good," the man said. "Now, walk." He started forward, digging the disruptor into Spock's back and leaving little room for argument. Spock steeled himself and limped forward. His injuries had stiffened as he slept and, as he had expected, stepping prompted a sensation of tearing agony in his right foot and lower leg. His ribs hurt fiercely. His head throbbed and he realized that blood from his cheek had begun to spot his uniform shirt with green. He was able, however, to go on. McCoy still seethed beside him.

As they began to walk, Spock considered their likely immediate future, and reached one conclusion. He and McCoy must attempt escape before they reached their destination. Wherever they were going, the chances were good that the number of walls, guards, disruptors, and watchful eyes surrounding them would increase. Logically, they had no choice but to conspire and move quickly.

Spock sent tendrils of thought toward McCoy. He had only attempted remote melds three times before, but there was, he understood, no other way to feasibly contact the doctor. He found McCoy's mind with surprising ease and slowly molded his thoughts to the doctor's. McCoy's eyes widened and he stumbled over a rock but, after a moment, he relaxed and accepted Spock's presence. By maintaining mental contact for hours the day before, Spock realized, they had both unknowingly prepared themselves for this, and of this fact he was grateful.

Uncertainly, as if he were unsure how to do so, McCoy sent a wave of curiosity toward Spock. _Why_?

Spock shut his eyes briefly and concentrated on the necessity of attempting escape, and of McCoy's cooperation, imbuing his thoughts as best he could with a sense of urgency. They would have one chance, and it was imperative that they acted soon. They could not be far from their destination.

The reply he received was a wall of indignant disbelief, images of his own green blood spurting across the tundra. The expression on McCoy's face demanded quite clearly, _Are you out of your Vulcan mind_?

_Quite possibly_, Spock thought in return. He was unsure of how many of his exact words would traverse the link, though had no doubt that McCoy would understand. _But we have no choice, and little time._

McCoy scowled, and flooded Spock's mind with doubt.

Spock could only reply that he planned to act regardless of McCoy's resistance. The doctor simply could simply choose between aiding him and not aiding him.

At this, McCoy's scowl deepened. Spock could see the muscles in his bruising jaw clench as he came to understand that he could do nothing but comply. _Fine_, McCoy seemed to snap through their link. Then, for a moment, his expression and his emotions softened, and he glanced at Spock_. For Jim_, he thought.

_For Jim_, Spock agreed.

* * *

McCoy watched Spock with dread and trepidation that he hoped he was keeping well enough inside his own head. He didn't want Spock knowing about or feeling his fear, not when Spock seemed so determined to go through with this. He could sense the Vulcan's resolve, though his own heart was hammering in his chest. If they failed now, they'd be killed. Maybe even cost Jim his life too. Come on, Spock, he found himself thinking. Get on with this before I can't.

Then the Vulcan seemed to stumble and fall to the ground beside him. McCoy froze for all of half a second before _NOW_ surged through their link and he realized that the disruptor was no longer pointed at either of them. Before he could tell himself he was too crazy to do this he turned and charged the their captor behind him, ramming his fists as hard as he could into the big man's stomach. Their captor hardly seemed fazed and McCoy understood in an instant that they were probably going to die. But as the man swung the disruptor toward McCoy Spock somehow shot to his feet. The Vulcan covered the distance to the man in all of a second and slammed his bound fists into the small of the man's back just as the disruptor went off. McCoy saw the flash of the blast before sudden, searing pain on the outside of his left hip sent him crashing and writhing to the ground. Looking up dizzily he saw Spock fumbling with bound hands for the base of the man's neck until the man swung around and slammed the barrel of his disruptor into Spock's damaged ribs. Spock froze, then started to double over, pain overwhelming his face. But as the man started to take better aim at Spock McCoy found a hidden well of strength or adrenaline and pushed himself up, running and throwing himself against their captor's back. He wasn't able to make the large man do more than stumble, but it was enough time for Spock to collect himself, twist his hands in his bonds and deliver the nerve pinch to the man's muscular shoulder. The man's eyes rolled back in his head and he fell backward onto McCoy.

Spock dropped to his knees, then forward onto his bound hands, and remained there, breathing heavily. McCoy gritted his teeth against the pulsating agony in his side and set about freeing himself from their captor's weight. When he'd finally managed to push the man away, he sat up, forcing himself to ignore his own lightheadedness and the pain blazing over his hip. He needed to check on Spock. Luckily their captor had taken his medkit along with his bag. Fighting down waves of dizziness and nausea, McCoy fished it out and crawled over to Spock.

"Spock," he said.

The Vulcan opened his eyes. "Doctor," he replied hoarsely.

McCoy searched through the jumbled contents of the medkit. He found the scanner after a few moments and pulled it out, waving it over Spock. He saw pain through the roof, exhaustion, some new bruises and more damage to the ribs, but nothing, he realized, that the Vulcan couldn't handle. He pulled out one of the last three painkiller hypos and applied it to Spock's shoulder.

"Sit down," he ordered. Spock did not move from his kneeling position. "Sit down, dammit!" McCoy insisted, his own pain making him irritable. He could feel hot blood welling from his hip and beginning to soak his pants. He felt unreasonably angry at it for a moment. "Spock!" he repeated. "I need to check your splint."

Spock seemed to shake himself from whatever haze he'd been in and eased himself down into a sitting position, stretching his long legs before him. "You are injured," the Vulcan pointed out. "I am…in no danger."

Now _that _sounded familiar, McCoy thought acerbically. "I'm the doctor," he snapped, though as soon as the words had left his mouth he wasn't sure what he meant by them. He was thirsty and the pain seemed to be going to his head. Still, Spock allowed him to adjust his splint and apply an anti-inflammatory hypo. When he was done, McCoy sat back heavily and sighed. He felt suddenly, and entirely, enervated. "We," he said, "are a sorry bunch, Mr. Spock."

Spock blinked. "We are hardly a bunch," he pointed out.

McCoy wasn't sure whether to smile or hit him. He settled for doing neither. "You're impossible."

"You are bleeding."

McCoy looked down, and realized that the blood welling from his hip had begun to stain his shirt as well as his black uniform pants. He began to search automatically through the medkit for the spray applicator and bandages, though he couldn't remember how much he had left after treating Spock and Jim the day before. He glanced at their captor, who still lay supine a few feet away. "How long'll he be out?"

"For at least one hour, I believe," Spock replied. Then, watching McCoy intently, "Doctor, please allow me to help."

"No," McCoy snapped. He finally found the bandages and spray applicator and set them down on top of the medkit. Peeling the soaked material of his uniform pants away from the wound, he couldn't help a sharp intake of breath. It was worse than he'd realized, and sure explained (he thought somewhat giddily) where all of the pain was coming from. The disruptor had seared a groove an inch or two deep and four or five long, just above his hip. The swelling flesh gaped and was still seeping blood.

"Doctor," Spock was saying.

With hands that had begun to shake McCoy fumbled with the settings on the applicator. "This had better be good, Spock."

The Vulcan reached out with bound hands and took the applicator from him. McCoy opened his mouth to protest, but Spock cut him off. "Allow me," he said evenly. "The procedure is not difficult."

McCoy was aware of his own bravado caving suddenly as he gave in to Spock's ministrations. When the Vulcan had finished applying plastiskin from spray applicator—which would not really be enough, McCoy knew, because standard medkits weren't equipped to handle disruptor rifles—bandaging the wound, and giving him all the correct hypos, McCoy sat back and let himself relax. He had to admit that he felt considerably better. He looked at Spock and managed a taunting smile. "So, Spock," he said, "I guess it's time to go rescue the captain now?"

Spock only looked at him and shut his eyes wearily in reply.

And that, McCoy thought, just about summed up all of his feelings about the day. He looked at their unconscious captor again. He waited until Spock's eyes were open again to gesture at the man with his still-bound hands. "First things first, I suppose," he said. "What do we do with him?"

* * *

Twenty-thousand kilometers above the surface of Catelus II, Mr. Scott was worried. The day before, he'd arrived at the rendezvous point early, wanting to be in position just in case something went wrong. He'd then waited, reminding himself that the captain's not being early was a _good_ thing. Then the rendezvous time had passed, and he'd told himself that Mr. Spock had probably just needed a few more readings, or something of the sort. When fifteen minutes had gone by, he'd started to get really concerned. After half an hour, he was downright worried. And after nearly nine, he was sure something had gone terribly wrong.

He'd sent down search parties, of course, but each had returned with only the report that long-range sensors failed to work above the planet. Of course, that was hardly a reason for the whole kit and caboodle to've disappeared. Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock were both able pilots. But disappeared they had, and right into thin air too. He'd sent shuttles down again and put his own men to work modifying the sensors in hopes of penetrating the magnetic field. So far, nothing from either party. Scott felt he'd been sitting in the captain's chair so long he had to be growing roots.

He eyed the navigator, who stood bent over Spock's viewer at the science station. "Anything, Mr. Chekov?"

Chekov glanced up, looking about as tired as Scotty felt. He shook his head. "Sorry, sair," he said. "No luck, sair."

Scott only nodded in reply and turned his attention to the gray planet still filling the viewscreen. The waiting was the worst of it all, especially seeing as he'd nothing useful to do on the bridge. The planet continued to turn beneath them, and Scott heaved a sigh. The captain was still out there, somewhere, and Scott decided he'd be damned if he couldn't find them and bring them back alive.

"Sir," Uhura said, pulling him out of his reverie. "One of the landing parties has just contacted the ship. They say they've…found the _Galileo_, sir, in…a lake, sixteen kilometers from where it was supposed to have landed. And sir," she added, holding her hand to the receiver at her ear, her voice dropping in pitch, "they say that the shape it's in, there's no way anyone could have survived. It's been burnt to a crisp."

"Thank ye, Lieutenant," Scott said.

He'd be damned.


	6. Chapter 6

Kirk could feel his frustration mounting by the minute, helped in no small way by growing hunger, thirst, cold, and the headache that still nagged at his temples. Hours at least had passed since he'd awoken in the chair, and still he'd seen no sign of his captors, or of anyone at all for that matter. He felt more caged, more frustrated, and angrier with each breath he took. He'd no idea how much danger his friends or ship were in. Who his captors were was a mystery no one seemed inclined to reveal. Not who they were, not why they wanted him, how much power they had or what their aim was. And without any of that he couldn't even begin to guess at what was going on outside his cell. He wished he could at least get up and pace, to do something with the frenetic energy that was only sending his mind down the same, fruitless paths of worry and directionless anger. If no one came soon… if no one came soon. _Then what?_ he demanded of himself, knowing full well that he had no answer. If no one came soon he'd continue to sit here, helpless and completely powerless while his crew faced unknown peril outside. It was almost more than he could stand.

He had, of course, tried to escape several times since finding himself in the cell. He'd tested the door again, managing only to bruise his elbow and nearly topple his chair. And when physical means hadn't worked he'd addressed the camera on the ceiling, insisting to whoever was watching that he was Captain James T. Kirk of the _U.S.S. Enterprise_ and that they had no _right_ to keep him here without at least showing themselves, but his speech had been ignored, if it'd even been seen or heard. Then he'd had to settle down to wait again, but after actually waiting the decision to do so again was almost unbearable. Kirk was not the kind of man who could sit and do nothing while his friends or his crew or his ship were in danger.

Unfortunately now, he couldn't do anything else.

He forced himself to breathe deeply and be calm. He wanted to be angry, to aim his anger at something or someone, but he knew it would be unproductive at best. Keeping a level head wasn't just an option in this situation, but a necessity. He had to be ready to face whoever, or whatever, came through the door.

Still, he couldn't keep himself from worrying about his ship (had they been fired on as well? Damaged? Forced to leave orbit?) and, to as great an extent if not one greater, about his two closest friends. Try as he might, he could not stop remembering how limply Spock had dangled between him and McCoy as they'd run for the _ghembapt_ burrow. On any given day, he'd thought, he could trust the two of them to take care of each another—insults and arguments notwithstanding—but as he scrutinized his own fears he began to realize that it was really Spock's strength he trusted to protect them both, not McCoy's. And now that Spock was compromised he couldn't help but feel that his officers needed him with them, as ridiculous as they would no doubt both tell him the feeling was. It wasn't that he didn't value McCoy's medical expertise, of course, or his loyalty or strength of will, but Bones was no fighter. Granted he could be fierce enough when he had to be, but still... Kirk didn't relish the thought that his and Spock's safety might ever rest on the doctor's ability to throw a punch.

A loud click in the door jarred him immediately from his thoughts. It had to be his captors. He stiffened, adrenaline making his heart pound and his breath quicken, but maintained outward calm, hoping to appear as in control as anyone could while naked and bound to a chair. A vague vibration or hum that must have been permeating the room the whole time suddenly powered down, and he realized with a spike of annoyance that for hours he'd simply been deaf to its ubiquity. In retrospect, of course, he recognized the low thrum of a high energy force field.

The metal door before him split open and each side retracted into tracks in the stone walls. A second later, a figure stepped through, followed immediately by two hulking others. All were clothed totally in black, their faces hidden by what looked like the lovechild of old-fashioned ski masks and executioners' hoods. Their large hands were sheathed in black gloves. The doors slid shut ominously behind them.

Kirk wasted no time. "Who are you?" he demanded violently, glad that he sounded nothing less than commanding. "What is this place? Who are you working for?" The man who had entered first stepped forward slightly, and despite his brave words Kirk was suddenly very aware of his own vulnerability, and of the fact that the was both outnumbered and outsized by his visitors. Still, he stared defiantly at them. "I want answers!" When his visitors offered no reply, he decided that offering a more conciliatory tone might be the wiser course of action. Spock, at least, would no doubt have approved. So, as his captors continued to watch him silently, he took a deep breath and said, "Perhaps there's been a mistake. I am Captain James T. Kirk of the _U.S.S. Enterprise_. I brought my ship here on a peaceful, scientific mission." The stress ever so slightly on _peaceful_.

Finally, the figure in the center spoke, his voice flat and precise, almost mechanical. "You will only speak when commanded to do so, Starfleet," he said. This was not, however, the answer that Kirk had wanted, and he inhaled sharply though his nose.

When he did speak again, it was without any attempt to bury his frustration. "I'll do _nothing_ for you until you fill me in on what's going on here." If he'd had a free fist or a tabletop he'd've pounded one for emphasis. "I have a _right_ to know what's going on, and I have a right to know what's happening to my crew!"

The figure responded by stepping forward so that his face was barely inches from Kirk's own, and grabbed Kirk by the jaw with one gloved hand. Kirk tried to jerk his head away but the man's fingers dug into the soft flesh of his cheek. Then with this other hand the man brought a small device up to Kirk's face and pressed it against his skin.

Agony followed. Kirk could barely choke back a surprised scream as his back arched against the chair as he tried to fight his way out of the chair and away from his tormentor. Then the pain was gone as suddenly as it had come and he wilted, panting, and tried to focus again on the figure before him. He remembered Klingon agonizers and the one he'd seen Spock's counterpart use aboard the _I.S.S. Enterprise_. Who were these people, then? Apparently not willing to answer that question.

"You are incorrect," the central figure said. "You have the right to know nothing." He paused. "You no longer have rights."

Kirk pressed his lips tightly together and stared his captor in the face, for the gut-dropping realization had come to him with those few words. It made perfect sense even as the understanding sent a chill down his spine.

"I know who you are," he said.

* * *

"I believe," Spock said, pulling his focus away from the pain and ever-encroaching desperation; Jim needed him, and McCoy needed him, to think, "that the first, and logical, course of action will be to remove our bonds and appropriate any useful items from our captor." The man's large body was still spread out beside them. Now, Spock climbed to his hands and knees and crawled to it, deliberately ignoring the protests from his abused body. Most likely, he reasoned, they would find a key of some sort hidden somewhere in the man's clothing. He decided not to consider what would happen if they did not.

"We should remove our bonds," McCoy repeated, and closed his eyes for a moment. "Great idea. I knew there was a reason Jim brought you along."

"Doctor, the captain did not 'bring me along,' as I was the one to instigate this mission," Spock replied absently. "And I hardly see the point." He opened the man's jacket, which had by far the most pockets, and struggled to remove it from the man's heavy body.

McCoy managed to look mildly amused, then started to push himself to his knees, his face pinching into a grimace. "I'll help you with that," he said.

Spock freed one of the man's thick arms from its sleeve and started on the other one, feeling much more exhausted by the effort than he should have. "I do not require your assistance," he said stiffly. He could not afford to rely so heavily on McCoy now that the doctor was injured. It was only logical that he assume the responsibility for McCoy's well-being, as any commanding officer would have done. As Jim no doubt would have done.

"Don't be an idiot," McCoy said, squaring his narrow shoulders and starting toward him.

As their eyes met, however, Spock recognized the stubborn determination behind them. McCoy wanted to be useful far more than he wanted to rest. It was a desire he was familiar with. So, rather than arguing, he nodded slightly and waited for McCoy to join him by the body. Together they stripped the man of his coat. Spock took it into his lap and began to systematically explore its pockets.

The first yielded a small, folded knife and the man's communicator, both of which Spock set on the ground in front of him. In an identical pocket on the other side of the coat he found a small, cylindrical device that he did not recognize. This he set before him as well. From other pockets he retrieved both his and McCoy's phasers and communicators, an extra energy cartridge for the disruptor rifle, several pieces of what appeared to be expensive jewelry, and another set of flexible golden handcuffs like those that bound him and McCoy.

From a pocket in the man's pants he retrieved a single memory tape, at which he cocked an eyebrow and held up silently to show McCoy. Though McCoy only offered a brief "Huh," Spock determined to examine it as soon as was possible. Any information regarding the captain's situation would no doubt prove vital. As he had no equipment with which to examine it, however, he set it on the ground with the other items.

Once satisfied that he had searched the man's clothing thoroughly, Spock sat back and gazed at the collection of items. His eyes lingered on the man's communicator, and for a moment he was aware that it was significant-but why?

Then he understood, and hope the likes of which he had not felt for some time flared in him.

"Doctor," he said, and realized that his tone was betraying his eagerness but made no attempt to even it, "I believe we can contact the _Enterprise_."

"_What_?" McCoy exclaimed. Recognition dawned as Spock reached with both tied hands toward the communicator, and the doctor said with a spreading smile, "Of course. It's got to work! He must have gotten around the magnetic field somehow!" He paused and looked to Spock for confirmation as Spock flipped the device open and set it to match the _Enterprise_'s frequencies. Then the doctor grinned outright, and quipped, "I think I do know why Jim brings you along."

Spock spoke into the device. "Spock to _Enterprise_," he tried. "Spock to _Enterprise_." No response. Frowning slightly, he adjusted the frequency, and tried again. "Landing party to _Enterprise_." He could see McCoy's smile fading as the communicator remained silent, and felt his own premature hope slowly ebbing. "Spock to _Enterprise_," he tried again, and twisted the dial once more. There was no logical reason for the device to fail, he thought doggedly. He had seen it used. Nothing had changed since it had been used. But this was desperate and illogical, for the device was plainly not functioning. "Spock to _Enterprise. _Landing party to _Enterprise_." Another adjustment. "Spock to _Enterprise_." And another. "Spock to _Enterprise_."

Finally, he closed the communicator and set it down. For a moment, neither he nor McCoy spoke. Then McCoy sighed deeply. "Well, it was worth a try," the doctor said thickly, though his flat tone suggested otherwise. "We're no worse off than we were before."

Fighting to master his own disappointment, Spock did not reply.

He tried to turn his attention instead to the small, cylindrical device he had found in their captor's coat, but discovered instead that he felt illogically responsible for the communicator's failure. This was such an absurd notion that he took a moment to examine the feeling before forcefully suppressing it. He realized then that the guilt stemmed from a deeper source. Jim had not "brought him along," as McCoy had become so fond of saying; _he _had brought Jim and the doctor to this planet. It was because of his curiosity about the magnetic field, and his inability to pilot the shuttle to safety, that Jim was captured and they were lost to the _Enterprise_.

The emotion examined, Spock pressed his lips together and returned his attention to the small cylindrical device. He could only assume it was the key to their bonds, as nothing else resembled one even slightly. It was perhaps three centimeters in height and two in diameter, and metallic, though he was unsure of the specific alloy.

"What does that thing do?" McCoy asked.

"I am uncertain," Spock said. He squeezed it, turned it in his hands and pressed its ends between his thumb and forefinger, then rolled it between his palms. Nothing happened. He then glanced at McCoy's bonds. "May I, Doctor?"

With a suspicious glance at the device, McCoy nodded and offered his hands. Uncertain of exactly what to do with it, Spock simply pressed one end of the cylinder against the golden material.

To his surprise, the material loosened so that McCoy was able to slide the cuffs off. The doctor then took the device from Spock and allowed him to do the same.

With their hands free, Spock and McCoy found it relatively easy to pack their belongings, as well as some of the man's, into both McCoy's bag and the pockets of the man's coat. Before they set out, McCoy insisted on examining Spock with his medical scanner, though he declined to examine himself. Spock frowned at this, for he was (he had to admit) worried about the doctor. Though McCoy had not complained since his injury, it was evident to Spock that he was in pain and unnaturally pale. Because Spock could both understand and respect McCoy's silence, however, and because he could do nothing to alleviate the doctor's pain, Spock chose not remark upon it.

The greatest obstacle to their continuing on turned out to be the question of what to do with their captor. They could not, of course, leave the man in a position from which he could find them or alert his cohorts. To kill him or allow him to die, however, would be simply unethical. Finally, after several minutes' debate over the best course of action, he and McCoy agreed to stun the man with a phaser so as to induce several more hours of unconsciousness, and to leave him keyless and with his feet bound together.

This accomplished, they spent another several minutes debating who was to wear their captor's coat, and who was to carry McCoy's bag, as McCoy was no longer uninjured. Spock ended this discussion by conceding to wear the jacket, as his Vulcan metabolism was ill equipped for the low temperatures, but also insisting upon carrying the pack. It seemed a fair compromise. McCoy took the disruptor rifle, gingerly at first, his grip tightening around it as he glanced at their unconscious captor.

Neither spoke much as they limped forward. Spock watched the surrounding landscape carefully, aware that they had to be near their destination, whatever its appearance, and that the likelihood of their being apprehended again would only continue to grow.

They were, Spock estimated, only a few meters from where the craft should have landed when their captor's communicator chirped in his pocket. McCoy's eyes widened as Spock's eyebrow ascended and he slowly produced the device. It chirped again in his hand, and this time McCoy stared at is as though it were about to explode.

Spock opened it carefully. After a moment, a deep voice greeted them. "We're waiting. Do you have them or not?"

Spock glanced at McCoy, who only shook his head.

He was then precluded from answering, for the ground rumbled, split, and began to open outward with a shrill mechanical groan.


	7. Chapter 7

McCoy stumbled as the ground jerked and with a curse and a yell fell flat on his ass. The gap opening in the earth was straight and probably thirty feet long, and widening by the second. Then it stopped. McCoy was just getting over his surprise, and beginning to push himself up with the disruptor rifle, when suddenly the ground shook again and began to open upward and outward from the crack. It was as if two huge doors or shutters leading into the earth itself were opening. What in the…? He scrambled for purchase but slid down the rising slope until he landed hard on his side in the hinge. Guess we found the entrance to Hell, he thought as pain exploded in his hip. Shoulda figured it'd be on this planet. Stunned, he could only stare up at what was quickly becoming a vertical wall of dirt before him. A few seconds later Spock dropped also, landing heavily on his feet but collapsing as his right leg gave way. The ground that they had been standing on only a minute before was now a veritable fifteen-foot wall. A little dirt rained down on them as the wall creaked to a halt at a near ninety-degree angle to the rest of the ground. McCoy could only imagine what lay exposed behind it.

But he'd no time for imagining. Gritting his teeth, McCoy forced himself up, and again supporting himself with the disruptor rifle he knelt by Spock's side. The Vulcan acknowledged his presence with a look, then with an unmistakable grimace he started to push himself to his knees.

"Spock," McCoy said a little too loudly, helping the Vulcan up but still distracted by the wall that had just erected itself before them, "what in the blazes—" After some effort he managed to hoist Spock to his feet, though the Vulcan held tightly to him and stood stork-like on one leg.

"I believe," Spock replied hoarsely, "that we may have found what we were looking for."

McCoy stared at him in disbelief until two nearly simultaneous things stole his attention. One was that, with a mighty roar, a small gray craft with no markings erupted out from between the two walls of earth and continued out into the clouded sky. The second was that the communicator, which Spock had dropped as he'd fallen, chirped again and demanded, "What in the _nifeeq_ do you think you're doing? Is that—are you at a launching point? What the _hujj_ are you doing at a launching point?"

Then Spock grabbed McCoy's arm and the feeling of strong fingers digging into his bicep pulled his attention back to the immediate present. "This may be our only chance," Spock said urgently. "Please, retrieve the communicator. Quickly Doctor," he added, wincing. "Before the entrance closes."

Wordlessly McCoy stooped down to pick up the device, which had fallen silent, returning to Spock's side just as the wall before them groaned into action again—this time swinging downward much faster than it had opened.

And McCoy knew that he had to act _now_. Before he could think better of it he pulled Spock's arm over his shoulder and hauled them both around the falling wall, dragging Spock to the pit that lay behind it. As he rounded its edge he saw that each side of the entrance was closing over a gently gleaming, metallic darkness, the floor of which he thought—and hoped—he could see a few feet below. Without hesitating he shoved Spock toward the edge, then jumped forward with the Vulcan practically in his arms.

A second later they both landed hard on a smooth metal surface, McCoy's fall only slightly softened by Spock's lean body. The heavy disruptor rifle clattered to the floor beside them. Dazed, McCoy pushed himself off of Spock only to stare up the thin line of sky disappearing several feet above his head. With a loud clank and an air of finality, the huge doors closed above them, enveloping them in darkness.

McCoy sat up, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to groan. His whole body seemed to hurt, and he could barely believe what he'd just done, leaping like a fool into God knew what. Well, he thought, it was too late to change his mind now. He only wished for a light, or some idea of what the hell they'd landed themselves in.

He also realized at that moment that Spock hadn't yet moved, and was simply breathing harshly in the darkness. "Spock?" McCoy said. What if he'd somehow done the Vulcan in by pulling him down here? He dismissed the thought as soon as it came—Spock was obviously alive, and not so easily done in—but he couldn't deny that he didn't like Spock's silence, especially not in the dark and in such an unfamiliar, threatening place. Hardly daring to breathe, he groped for Spock's form and found the Vulcan's shoulder, then reached for his face in an unthinking attempt to find the reason for Spock's silence. If he'd landed on his head…

"Doctor, I am conscious." Spock said, and McCoy froze with fingers probing the warm skin of the Vulcan's temple. "And I fail to see the point in this exercise."

McCoy withdrew his hands quickly from Spock's face, suddenly embarrassed at having let Spock so close to his unfounded fears. "Dammit, you pointed-eared hobgoblin," he growled the first words that came into his head, his embarrassment turning to annoyance, "don't you ever do that again."

It took Spock a moment to answer. "I apologize," he said finally, and with some effort. "I had not intended to frighten you. I had simply needed time to…address the discomfort that resulted from our fall, without the distraction of conversation."

"Who's frightened?"

Spock sighed slightly. "Doctor, we have been in mental contact frequently during the last twenty-four hours, and you were touching my face near the points used by Vulcans to initiate such contact. I sensed your thoughts quite clearly."

"Well—" McCoy blustered. "Where in God's name are we?"

"Perhaps, exactly where we should be," Spock said, seemingly unfazed by the change in subject. "Currently, we are within ten-point-three meters of the landing site I calculated for the craft we saw."

"But you've got no idea," McCoy interpreted.

Rather than dignifying the comment with a response, Spock began to sit up. Judging by the fact that the sound of his breathing stopped, this harder for him than it should've been. With a stab of guilt at the memory of actually _landing_ on the Vulcan, McCoy sought out Spock's back with his hands and helped to push him upright. Finally, Spock took a deep, steadying breath.

Swearing to himself, McCoy started searching for the pack Spock'd been wearing when they'd jumped. He found it beside the Vulcan's body, opened it, and fished for his medkit. He only hoped he hadn't caused permanent damage to Spock's ribs by landing on them. "Really, Spock, are you all right?"

"My splint will need to be adjusted before I am able to travel," Spock said, avoiding the question entirely. But for a fleeting moment, McCoy thought he could sense the emotion behind the neutral words: frustration at having been so crippled by such an inconsequential, pointless fall, which under normal circumstances would not have even ruffled him; and a deeper fear, perhaps not even acknowledged to himself, that without his strength intact, he would have no hope of rescuing Jim.

Then McCoy shook his head. "I'll do what I can," he said truthfully, and for what he was sure would not be the last time, he wished he had some kind of light. "So your ankle's bad. How are your ribs?"

"Causing me some discomfort, but not in need of immediate attention," Spock said as McCoy accidentally pulled out a tricorder instead of his medkit, and shoved it back in the pack. "Doctor, our presence here will doubtlessly be detected soon, whether by some measure of security in this area or by whomever contacted us through the communicator. We should not remain long in this area."

"Not to mention we're sitting in a runway of some sort," McCoy pointed out. He finally found the medkit and drew it out of the pack. Now if only he could see.

"Exactly," Spock said. "Now, if you please, my splint."

Crawling in the direction of Spock's feet, McCoy groped in the darkness until he found what was unmistakably a boot. That Spock's breath caught and he stiffened without a word told McCoy that he'd picked the right one. More gently, McCoy examined the limb by touch until he was able to discern the hard lines of the splint, which _did_ need to be adjusted. It seemed that following one of their recent falls—or recent landings, he supposed—one of the supports had come loose. McCoy noted with a jolt of dissatisfaction that Spock's toes were pointing about thirty degrees too far to the right. "Spock, you should've told me you were in this much pain."

"Did I not?"

McCoy shook his head, then found the last painkiller hypo and released it into Spock's thigh. "I'm sorry, Spock, but this is gonna hurt."

Spock's response nearly made McCoy smile in spite of himself. "Obviously."

Then, his warning received, McCoy wasted no time in twisting Spock's broken leg into position and re-securing the errant splint support as efficiently as he could. Spock, of course, remained silent, but McCoy knew the man was in agony and that his silence was costing him dearly. In fact, he _knew_ with a certainty that made him frown. Spock's thoughts in his head were the last damn things he needed. He decided not to bring it up, though, instead packing up the medkit and stowing it in his bag. "Good as new, Spock."

Spock's reply was strained. "Thank you, Doctor."

McCoy glanced in the direction of the voice. "My pleasure."

"I certainly hope not," Spock said, and began to stand. Realizing his intentions, McCoy wedged himself beneath the Vulcan's arm as support. His own injury throbbed as he levered Spock upright, but it was somehow easier to deal with the pain when he was busy doing his job. It was easy to tell himself that Spock's needs eclipsed his own.

"I believe I saw a door down the corridor before the overhead entrance closed," Spock said. "I suggest we attempt to reach it." He paused. "Doctor, I also suggest you retrieve the disruptor from the floor."

"Right," McCoy muttered, and returned to Spock's side a moment later with the heavy weapon in his hands. "Let's see what's behind that door."

* * *

"You're slavers, aren't you," Kirk stated, unable to help himself despite the threat of the agonizer in the central figure's hand. The idea, which had come before in a flash of intuition, made more sense the more he considered it. His captors used special, form-fitting bonds because their entire business depended on them. They'd chosen a planet deep within the Federation because they operated within the Federation. There might not be much in the vicinity of Catelus II, but there were remote mining colonies and the like that might not object to cheap forced labor. Slaves for other purposes could easily be shipped elsewhere once traded or purchased here. That the planet blocked subspace transmissions was immaterial—or even useful, he realized, a perfect way to hide activity on the planet from prying eyes. No one on the _Enterprise_ had even suspected that the planet wasn't uninhabited. That it lacked useful resources was just another reason it'd be left alone. That it was far from Klingon or Romulan space meant nothing, while the fact that Orion space was thousands of light years away probably only meant less competition.

And everything kept falling into place. He and Spock and McCoy'd been shot down because visitors were a threat to his captors' anonymity, and Starfleet especially, though no doubt they eliminated all threats. The only reason he was still alive now had to be the same reason they'd put him in a room alone and covered themselves in black to speak to him: they knew exactly what he was, and they wanted something from him. Information, no doubt. They'd want to know his business here, if they'd been discovered or if he'd come to the planet by coincidence. They'd probably want more, too, the type of information about Starfleet that would allow them to operate more smoothly, the very type that any Starfleet captain would know. And when they were done questioning him…_you no longer have rights_. Maybe slavery was in his future too.

The figure responded to Kirk's accusation by pressing the agonizer against the skin of his bare shoulder. The pain that followed was as violent as the first time, and he jerked and fought and this time failed to hold in a scream. And again it was gone as soon as it'd come.

"First question," the figure announced in its eerily monotone voice, while Kirk panted for breath in his chair. "What was the nature of your mission to this planet? If you answer truthfully, you will be spared pain." He motioned for the large figure on his right to come forward, and the figured obeyed. He held a wide, synthetic band in his hands, which he strapped and secured around Kirk's upper arm. Kirk supposed that it was a lie detector. And though his face remained set and determined, he could feel himself grow pale.

He could describe to them his mission. A scientific exploration of the planet's magnetic field was hardly classified information—if anything, it was the sort of story he'd use for a cover if he'd needed one. The _Enterprise_ was also between missions that could be regarded in any way as delicate. He had no secrets about her general directive. And he doubted that his captors would try to win the _Enterprise, _no matter what kind of thieves they were; a Constitution-class starship could not disappear without being looked for, and a search in this area would draw attention to the planet that there was no way they could want. At least, so he hoped.

What worried him was the fact that he could not afford to divulge the slightest bit of information about his friends' presence on the planet. It was his duty as a starship captain, of course. Starfleet had driven into him long ago the necessity of protecting one's fellow officers in such situations, and he had not forgotten. He knew that even the smallest, most seemingly innocuous detail offered under duress could prove disastrous to others. But it was not just duty that pulled at him and made him wish, desperately, for their safety. They were his friends, his closest friends, and he could let no harm come to them, no matter what he faced. It was a promise that he had made to himself long ago.

He was determined to be strong enough to uphold it it.

"The nature of my mission," Kirk said slowly in reply, "is to study the anomalies in this planet's magnetic field. A peaceful, scientific mission," he repeated.

"Good," the figure said without emotion, when Kirk's armband showed no change. "Second question: had you any other reason to explore Catelus II?"

"No," Kirk said, and glared at his captor.

"Third question: did anyone accompany you to Catelus II?"

Kirk inhaled deeply. "No," he said.

The lie detector flashed red.

"I repeat," the figure said flatly, "did anyone accompany you to Catelus II?"

This time, when he braced himself for the agonizer, it was with Spock and McCoy in mind. And they stayed in his mind, too, even as the agony finally made him scream and writhe until he nearly toppled the chair over.

"I repeat," the figure said again, drawing away, still sounding totally and deceptively disinterested. "Did anyone accompany you to Catelus II?"

Kirk stared wildly up at his captor, gasping for breath with his mouth open. The figure approached again, agonizer in hand, and Kirk braced himself for more. For Spock and Bones, he thought desperately, for Spock and Bones. Then the agonizer came into contact with his flesh again, and all coherent thought fled his mind.

* * *

Dredging the lake without long-range sensors, Scott decided, was probably the worst thing he'd ever had to oversee, and that was even before they came up with the bodies. It wasn't just that it was muddy, cold, uncomfortable work, or that the old fashioned equipment was a real pain to use. No. What made the project terrible was the fact that it could end in only two ways: bad, and worse. Success meant finding the landing party dead, while failure meant wasting several sorry hours in, and far too much attention on, a freezing lake while the captain and Mr. Spock and Dr. McCoy were in need of help elsewhere.

When Uhura had first reported the shuttlecraft found, he had refused to believe the landing party was dead. "I won't believe they're _anything _but alive and waiting for us," he'd said with conviction, "until someone brings me their bodies. Condition of the shuttlecraft _not_withstanding." And he'd stuck by that, too, ordering the miserable search of the lake.

Now, Sulu's voice broke him out of his reverie. "Sulu to _Enterprise_."

Scott hit the intercom button on his chair. "Report," he said.

Though the helmsman took a deep breath before continuing, Scott knew with a sudden, sinking certainty, exactly what was coming next. "We've…we've found your bodies," Sulu said dutifully. "Only two so far, but I can't imagine the third is far away."

"And they're…?" Scott paused, sighed, and asked again, "Are you certain they're the landing party?"

"Well, no, not exactly," Sulu admitted. "They're, well, they're burned up pretty badly. I doubt even Sickbay will find it easy to ID them. I'm sorry. Just a moment, sir," he said, and Scott waited, barely breathing. He didn't want to believe it. Everything in him rebelled at the very idea that Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock and Dr. McCoy could all be dead, and for nothing. But really, he asked himself numbly, who else could the corpses belong to? The chances that two other men would just happen to be found alongside the charred skeleton of the _Galileo_ in a remote lake on a remote planet were no doubt too small for even Mr. Spock to have calculated.

"Sair," Chekov said softly from the science station. He sounded shocked and subdued, but Scott nodded for him to continue. "I…I realize this may not matter…anymore, sair, but I've just received a message from Engineering. They say, that there might be a way to compensate for the anomalies in the magnetic field, if we produce grawitational waves of our own. We could create areas in which subspace transmissions and our sensors would not be bloked. The calculations will be difficult, however…" he trailed off and looked at the floor, before adding sadly, "and might take some time."

Scott said kindly what he was sure they both already knew. "Mr. Chekov, I don't think that will be necessary."

Sulu called the ship again before Chekov could reply, and Scott started at the sound of his voice. "Report, Mr. Sulu," he said tersely.

"That was… the team found the third body, sir," Sulu said. He sounded shaken, and like he was trying to disguise that fact. "It's also…charred, but it seems to be, at least, from what we can tell, it's Vulcan. If I had any doubts before…"

"Very well," Scott said. "Tell the landing party to beam up. I'll be waiting with a medical team in the transporter room. We _will _be sure we've got the right bodies before we make any decisions. Lieutenant Uhura," he said, "Starfleet'll have to be notified. They'll probably want us to move out as soon as we can."

Uhura nodded as Scott stood and started toward the turbolift. "Yes, sir," she said slowly, and the defeat in her voice was almost more than Scott could bear.

* * *

Any thoughts? I'd love to hear 'em!


	8. Chapter 8

With the arm not wrapped over McCoy's shoulders, Spock felt against the cold metal wall for the outline of the door. He knew they were nearing it, but in the agony that had followed his fall into the tunnel he had failed to discern its exact position. "I believe we are almost…" He limped forward, still leaning too heavily on McCoy as pain splintered up through his leg. Finally his fingers brushed against a ridge and crack in the otherwise smooth wall, and he amended, "We have reached the door."

"Great," McCoy said flatly, shifting slightly under Spock's weight. "Will it open?"

"We shall find out," Spock said.

McCoy shook his head but helped Spock step to the center of the door, where he found a thin seam in the metal. The door did not open upon sensing their presence, however, and Spock suppressed his disappointment. It was illogical to expect an outer door to a secret compound to open easily. That the door had not opened did not mean that it would not open. And, more importantly, it did not mean that they would fail to rescue Jim. _That, _he thought stubbornly, was simply not an acceptable outcome. That there might not be another outcome was not a possibility he wanted to consider, though it arose as he stood still for a moment with his fingertips resting on the door seam. Jim…Jim simply meant too much. He could not imagine returning to the _Enterprise _without him to resume his normal life upon it. And while this was, of course, nonsensical—he _would_ continue to live aboard the _Enterprise _regardless of Jim's presence—he realized also that this belief was what kept him from examining the odds of success. He knew instinctively that they would be so low as to render the entire venture illogical.

He closed his eyes briefly, though in the darkness there was no difference. It was not light that he wanted to shut out.

"Spock," McCoy said gently. Spock opened his eyes and wondered with mild annoyance if his momentary despair had been so apparent. He should not have indulged in it. McCoy went on, his voice still uncharacteristically soft but regaining its usual gruffness as he went on, "I think I feel a control panel on this side of the door, but I can't make heads or tails of it."

"Where?" Spock asked, reaching blindly and abruptly across the door. His ribs protested the movement but he pressed his lips together and suppressed the pain. When he touched McCoy's outstretched arm instead of the panel, the doctor wordlessly guided his hand to it. "Interesting," Spock said after he had examined the panel for a few moments. "This seems to be a reader for memory tapes."

"You found a memory tape," McCoy remembered. "In one of our captor's pockets."

"Indeed." He retrieved it from the coat pocket in which he had stowed it. "It may be that it acts as a form of identification. More personalized than a key, but requiring less maintenance than a retinal scanner, and less species-specific than, say, fingerprinting. The system has been utilized to great effect in several locations." He found the slit in the control panel once more and slipped the tape in.

"Thanks, Spock, I was hoping for a lecture," McCoy deadpanned. "You'd better be right, you know, seeing as I've no idea what we'll do if you're not."

He jumped as the control panel began to whir, the computer behind it speaking suddenly in a mechanical feminine voice: "Name: Benjamin, Lukas. Status: crewman. Ship: _Aurore_. Clearance: level two. Access," the panel whirred for a few moments, "granted." The door clicked softly, then split open to reveal a hallway that from the darkness seemed blindingly bright.

Spock fumbled the memory tape from the control panel and returned it to his coat as McCoy started forward, pulling him the first few agonizing steps into the hallway. They stumbled out of the darkness together. McCoy squeezed his eyes shut and bowing his head while Spock squinted into the light, his second eyelids protecting him from the worst of the brightness.

They were alone, and standing in a long, dank corridor lit harshly from above. Spock drew his phaser.

"My God, Spock," McCoy breathed a moment later, "where _are_ we?"

The corridor stretched before them for dozens of meters before ending in either a T or a wall, far enough away that it was impossible to tell. The ceiling was low and the muted gray walls were close and claustrophobic, though every ten or twelve meters were set heavy metal doors with small windows. A few smaller, windowless doors were visible as well. The entire corridor, Spock thought, had the atmosphere of a prison. "Doctor," he murmured, "I would suggest you be ready to use the disruptor." McCoy only tensed.

They started forward silently, keeping close to the wall and halting at the first large door. Its window, which appeared to be shielded by a force field, sat just above Spock's eye level. "I shall endeavor to look inside," he said, and McCoy nodded.

Gripping McCoy's shoulder, Spock pushed himself up onto the toes of his left foot, the doctor steadying him as he peered inside. What he saw rendered him speechless. The room behind the door was long, wide, and squat…and filled with men. Shaved and dressed in identical, pale green outfits, they were arranged in rows, their hands bound in golden material and secured to four long railings that ran the length of the room. Some stood, and some sat, but all were silent and none pulled on their bonds or made any attempt to move. At least six different species were present. The oldest of the humans could not have been more than fifty, while the youngest could have been no less than fifteen. The members of other species were aged accordingly.

Spock's eyebrows drew together as he scanned each face. Jim was not among them.

"What is it, Spock?" McCoy hissed from just below him.

In response, Spock stepped to the side so that McCoy could take his place. His mind worked. Obviously, this was no sanctioned Federation prison or rehabilitation colony, for none was recorded as being on this planet. Furthermore, none treated their inmates so barbarically, confining so many to a single room or chaining them together so. Nor did sanctioned rehabilitation colonies kidnap Starfleet officers or fire upon Federation shuttlecraft. Apparently, he and McCoy had stumbled upon a criminal operation of some sort. Spock pressed his lips together in distaste as he realized exactly what they must have discovered.

Beside him, McCoy dropped down from his tip-toes. "God almighty," he whispered. "I can't believe this. This is…these are…unless this is some kind of prison colony no one bothered to mention before we left-"

"I do not believe it is," Spock said.

McCoy sounded disturbed. "They must be kept in there until they can be bought, or sold, or shipped out somewhere."

"Doubtlessly," Spock said. His thoughts, however, had already moved on to the plight of one very specific prisoner. "We must inspect the other rooms. It is possible that the captain is being kept in another room in this area."

"Hell," McCoy said, shaking his head. "I hope not."

"Doctor, _I_ will not complain if we find Jim here," Spock said. "Or would you rather continue to search for him?"

"What do you think?" McCoy replied without much feeling, tugging Spock's arm into a more comfortable position over his shoulders as they started toward the next door. When this made Spock jerk in unexpected pain, however, McCoy stared at him for a long moment. "All right, Spock," he said. "I want you to tell me the truth. Are you up to this?"

Spock halted for a brief moment, then tightened his lips again and resumed limping toward the next door. He felt a shred of annoyance at the question, though exactly with whom he was annoyed he could not have said. "The pain is," he began. In truth the pain in his ankle was burgeoning, forcing itself outward and intensifying with every step he had taken since their fall, and his ribs had throbbed relentlessly following their fight with their captor. "It is manageable," he said tightly. "And may I remind you, Doctor, that we must both either be 'up to this,' or perish?"

McCoy frowned and seemed about to berate him when one of the smaller doors opened and emitted a pair of men, hooded and dressed in all black. Though the men froze for a moment, probably surprised to see two Starfleet uniforms, they quickly turned and leveled disruptors at Spock and McCoy.

Spock reacted first. "Shoot, Doctor!" he yelled, aiming and firing his own phaser. One of the men crumpled to the ground, his disruptor scoring a line in the wall as he fell. The second man fired at them as Spock did but the bolt from his disruptor only grazed Spock's oversized jacket. A split second later McCoy raised the disruptor rifle and fired. The second man was knocked backward by the force of the blast and landed limply on the floor in a tangle of black-clad limbs. In the stillness and thick silence that followed, the only movement in the corridor seemed to be the blood pooling beneath the fallen man.

As his own concentration returned to normal, Spock became aware that McCoy was breathing heavily under his arm, his heart throbbing noticeably against Spock's side. Even Spock had to admit that he was shaken. Had the men moved more quickly or utilized better aim, he realized, his and McCoy's search would have been brought to an abrupt end. They had been fortunate.

"I need to check on them," McCoy said. His eyes seemed glued to the dark red blood spreading across the tiled floor.

Spock nodded and together they started forward toward the fallen men. McCoy left Spock's side to crouch beside the bodies, fumbling in the pack for his medical scanner. He found it after a few moments and waved it through the air above each man. "The one you shot is only stunned," he reported. "The one I hit…" He winced, and glanced at the second body, in whose chest a surprisingly wide, neat hole had been blasted. Still staring at the body he finished flatly, "The other one is dead." He looked up at Spock, then took a deep breath and released it in a jumble of words. "Spock, I thought the disruptor had a stun setting. I thought I'd had it set to stun."

Spock dipped his head once in acknowledgement of the statement and its implications. They had, however, no time to deal with the emotional repercussions of McCoy's mistake. "We should not linger here," he said. "We must examine the other rooms and depart from this corridor before more guards arrive or an alarm is tripped."

McCoy returned his medical scanner to its bag and stood, fists clenched, his bruised face hardening. His eyes did not leave Spock's. "Of _course_, Spock," he said coldly. "I suppose the fact that this man is dead doesn't even register on those computer circuits you call a brain. I shouldn't've mentioned it. I guess I expected too much of you."

Spock understood the source of McCoy's anger and that the doctor was actually more frustrated with himself than with Spock. What Spock failed to understand was why McCoy insisted upon acting as though this were not the case. "Doctor, the loss of life is always regrettable," he said in as conciliatory a tone as he could manage. "But our time here is not unlimited and, probably, neither is Jim's. I should not have to remind you that his life is in danger as well as ours."

"If you hadn't ordered me to shoot—"

"Most likely, we both would have been killed or captured."

They stared at each other for a moment. Then McCoy seemed to wilt. His shoulders slumped and his hands relaxed, and finally looking away he sighed heavily. "Of course, Spock," he said. This time, he sounded nothing less than defeated, and took another deep breath before going on. "Of course you're right." Leaving the bodies, he returned to his position at Spock's side and wrapped his arm securely around Spock's waist once more. "I'm sorry, Spock," he added lamely. "I think this must all just be…getting to me."

"There is no need for an apology," Spock replied. When McCoy swallowed and tensed again at the words, however, Spock sighed slightly. "However...I accept yours. I believe the correct phrase for this situation is 'no problem, Doctor.'"

McCoy nodded, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. "Thanks, Spock," he said. "I just…I mean…thanks."

They started toward the next door. Spock considered the doctor as they did so. Unusually, he did not feel any residual anger following their argument. Rather, he was aware only of an unexpected fondness and a much stronger gratitude. He realized that he trusted Dr. McCoy more than he did any other being in the galaxy, save one-and that if they failed to save Jim, the doctor would be his closest friend.

He only hoped that they could find Jim Kirk before then.

* * *

It took Nurse Chapel and Dr. M'Benga nearly three hours autopsy the corpses, and when they were done, they called Scott to Sickbay. When he arrived, Chapel guided him to a small room away from most of the biobeds. "What you're going to see in there isn't pretty," she warned him matter-of-factly.

Then the doors swished open, and Nurse Chapel was proved right. The bodies were set on three metal tables complete with refrigeration units and small odor-containing force fields. Each was laid out on its table completely bare… and also completely unrecognizable, as twisted and desiccated as an old piece of driftwood. What skin still clung to the charred flesh and darkened bone was coal-black and flaking. Toes and fingers had curled and shriveled. But it was their faces that were the worst, Scott thought. Skin and bone seemed indistinguishable. Gone were their eyes and noses and lips, while their mouths gaped in silence. Scott could only tell which was Spock by its greenish color. The two corpses of black and red were indistinguishable.

Scott forced himself to look away from the bodies, and up at Dr. M'Benga. When he spoke, he was pleased (or rather as pleased as could be, under the circumstances) that his voice didn't betray his horror. "What was it ye wanted to tell me?"

The doctor sighed heavily, folding his arms over his chest. "Unfortunately, I can't actually tell you very much," he said. "I wish I could. We've just completed three thorough autopsies—and I do mean thorough. We've scanned them, inside and out, opened them up, checked dental records, tested DNA, examined what blood we could find, and more I seriously doubt you'd like to hear the details of."

"And?" Scott prompted. "Have you determined it's them?"

"Well," Dr. M'Benga said, "that's what I was coming to. We _think_ it's them. It certainly makes _sense_ that it would be them. But, I have to tell you…not a single one of our tests confirmed it. They're all missing teeth. They've no retinas to scan, no fingerprints to check. Even their DNA is completely unreadable. I can't say exactly what caused it to be scrambled, but I'm guessing antimatter radiation from the shuttlecraft's core."

Scott took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. "Antimatter radiation," he muttered. "Aye. It's possible." But it sure wasn't probable, not from a Class F shuttlecraft, and not so very conveniently. Scott crossed his arms and looked distrustfully at the bodies again. It really _didn't _make sense that's they'd belong to anyone but Kirk, Spock, and McCoy. But if they did… "Thank ye," Scott said curtly to Dr. M'Benga, and left the Sickbay. It was time to go and examine that shuttle himself.

* * *

At first, Kirk hadn't realized that the torture session was over. There was no ceremony. The figure with the agonizer had simply stepped back as before each new question and not come back. It was only after several long, painless moments that Kirk found the energy to lift his head and look at the figure, to stare defiantly at him.

How many hours of pain, of screaming, of helplessness, of questions he couldn't answer? No, he thought forcefully. Questions he wouldn't allow himself to answer. There was a difference, and for the last however many hours it had seemed the most important difference in the world. But how many hours? His sense of time had fled, for the moment, along with his more coherent thoughts. He was beyond exhausted, and as weak as he could remember being in his life. Maybe. The memories were hard to retrieve through the haze. He flopped forward again, his head lolling against his bare chest as his bonds kept him from falling off the chair.

He had done it, he thought suddenly. He had survived and not broken. Spock and Bones, his Spock and Bones, were safe from him. The _Enterprise_ and the Federation and all of its secrets were safe. He felt a delirious chuckle crawling up his throat and he let it out, not caring what his captors thought, because they had done all they could do him and he had survived. It didn't it matter now that he felt as weak as a kitten, his mind reeling so that he couldn't put two thoughts together.

The central figure turned around and left the room abruptly. Kirk watched him go, the absurd chuckle dying in his throat as his head began to clear. He had to get control over himself, he realized. Even if the torture wasn't going to continue, whatever was happening to him hadn't ended by any means. He was still a prisoner, and he'd need all of his wits to escape.

He flinched involuntarily when the two larger figures, who had spent most of the torture session watching him silently, came suddenly forward. But when neither produced an agonizer, he forced himself to relax, irritated at his own jumpiness. One of the figures knelt and touched a small metal cylinder to the bonds at his feet, loosening them. The bonds at his thighs were next, and then the larger one wrapped around his chest. Kirk allowed himself to fall forward limply as one of the figures moved behind. His mind was working quickly. This might be his only chance. If he could take them by surprise, now, while there were only two of them...

But the figure behind him did not immediately release his hands. Instead, he paused behind Kirk while the other approached Kirk's right side, raised a small pointed instrument, and jabbed it into the back of his neck.

Kirk jerked, more in surprise than in pain, for the instrument had delivered only a slight pinch. But what was it? An injection? An implant? Then the figure behind him released his hands, and he decided that it didn't matter. He had to act now.

He'd meant to catapult forward toward the door, and either flee or use the wall to make a fight with his captors more even. But as he tried he found he couldn't make his muscles move. His arms and legs wouldn't obey him. He felt real panic rising up in him, and his eyes widened as he tried and failed to fight the paralysis.

"Stand," the figure to his right commanded him.

His legs flexed and his torso rocked forward, then he stood up straight. Not of his own will, he realized, but neither completely apart from it, as had been the case on Platonius. Now, it was as if his mind and body simply agreed with his captors that obedience was his only option. No matter what _he _actually wanted. "What is this?" he asked, gesturing down at himself and noting that his arms, hands, mouth, and vocal cords still seemed to respond to his wishes. He wasn't very surprised when neither figure answered.

He tried to move his legs again, and found that he could pick up each foot and put it down again, shift from foot to foot and step forward once or twice. His captors seemed content to let him experiment for a few moments, as if they'd been expecting it. He tried to think despite their patiently menacing presence. Perhaps whatever they'd done to him had been temporary, or the paralysis had been only a momentary side effect of it. He tried his arms as well and was able to flex them, then clap his hands together softly and release them. Obviously, he wasn't paralyzed. He could still make his attempt.

But when he tried to lunge for the door again his body didn't move. He was able, however, to raise his hand to the back of his neck. Palpating the skin there he found a small raised area, like a healed scar, just below his hairline. "What did you do to me?" he demanded.

He tensed in anticipation as the figure who had undone his bonds started forward. But the figure just continued across the cell, using a small key to open the door. Kirk relaxed, mildly annoyed at himself once more.

"Walk," the other ordered. Kirk obeyed.

His captors guided him through three or four low hallways, all studded with closed doors. Though they passed a few people, some in black, some dressed as civilians, none seemed to pay them any attention. Once, they were passed by a line of five or six women dressed all in matching pale green, their heads shaved and their hands bound to a rope, which was guided on either end by more large figures in black. Kirk watched them go by with wide eyes until they were out of sight.

Their destination was a thick door labeled PROCESSING. One of his captors opened it with what looked like a memory tape. The other immediately shoved Kirk inside. Kirk stumbled, then looked around and blinked.

The room was filled with the most disheveled, diverse crowd he had ever seen outside of a bar. Perhaps half of the room's occupants were human, and about a quarter were naked as he was. Most looked—and smelled—like they hadn't bathed in several days. Clothes, when present, were dirty and torn. Kirk barely had time to take the scene in before strong hands grabbed him from behind and manhandled him into what he realized was a long line zigzagging through the room.

But a line to what? And to where?

Kirk leaned forward to ask the Andorian in front of him, but when he opened his mouth he couldn't form the words. He turned away and sighed in frustration, lifting a hand to touch the scar on the back of his neck.


	9. Chapter 9

Kirk found out soon enough where the line was heading. Shortly after he was shoved into the room, three sets of doors opened on the far wall and from each emerged one black-clad guard holding a large sack. The guards began to move down the line, sorting the room's occupants into lines of men, women, and what seemed to be children and the elderly. Each person sorted was handed something from a sack.

From his position at the back of the line, it took Kirk a little while to get a good glimpse of the packages. They appeared to bundles of something pale green. It wasn't until the last guard reached him, guided him into the men's line (he tried to resist, but his muscles still refused to listen to him and he had to fight down the by-now familiar panic), and handed him a bundle that he realized they were a set of shapeless pale green clothes.

Well, he thought grimly, examining them, they were certainly better than nothing. Though to be honest, he had almost gotten used to—if not exactly thrilled about—his lack of uniform.

Then the guards returned to the front of each line and beckoned the first man, woman, and child forward. Kirk stepped toward his door with the rest of his obedient line. Perhaps a minute or two later, the doors opened again and the guards came forward to guide another three beings into the rooms. With a pang of fear Kirk wondered what had happened to the first man, woman, and child to enter the rooms—he'd seen disintegration chambers before—and why hadn't they come out? But he recognized the thought as ridiculous as soon as it had passed his mind. It was much more logical to assume that they'd simply been transferred into the other rooms. What he should really be wondering was why he hadn't thought of that first.

The line moved again after another minute or two, and again after another interval. Kirk tested his paralysis again, trying first to speak to the Andorian still in front of him and then to make for the door, but it seemed that any movement not sanctioned by his captors was still impossible. He'd need to learn more about the mechanism to find a way around it, he thought. An implant could be removed, after all. An injection would probably need to be repeated, and could be avoided the next time. The line moved again.

Finally, Kirk was the only man left standing before the doors. The line of women had been longer, apparently, or whatever happened behind its doors took longer, because five of them still stood to his right—three tired humans, one disgruntled-looking Tellarite, and a naked Klingon that he realized was glaring daggers at him.

He turned to her with eyebrows raised, his best innocent face. The Klingon's scowl only deepened. Though he wasn't able to ask the question in his mind—a spontaneous _do you recognize me?_—he was able to shrug at her. The Klingon, being a Klingon, only grimaced and looked away haughtily.

Kirk turned away as well, feeling strangely pleased. Any contact with other prisoners, he decided, was good contact, because it meant that either interaction would be allowed or that their captors' method of control wasn't as foolproof as it seemed. And any sort of connection in here meant a greater potential to escape with help or companions…even Klingon ones.

Then the doors opened before him, and a large figure guided him into the small room behind them. Inside was a table at which sat a man and a woman, both around Kirk's age and wearing stylish suits. Opposite them was a low platform, which the guard guided him to and ordered him to stand on. Kirk could only obey.

A panel behind him lit up as he did so, bleeping his heart rate and displaying vital functions like one of Bones' biobeds. Startled by the sudden noise, Kirk wound around to look at the display, then turned back to his captors. Each was entering data into a PADD, glancing up at him every few seconds. Feeling acutely exposed, Kirk couldn't help but wish he was wearing the green outfit he still held in one hand.

He was then surprised to feel himself pelted by sonic pulse vibrations from a sonic shower apparently fixed somewhere above his head. It was over as quickly as it had begun, leaving him confused and admittedly clean and more comfortable; even his shoulder wound felt less stiff. More shocking than the shower, however, was the instrument that the guard ran suddenly over his head. It rattled and made strange sucking noises, and as the guard pulled it away Kirk realized with unexpected indignation that most of his hair was gone. His captors had left him with only "peach fuzz."

He glared at the man and woman before him, but again his mouth would not open to demand more information. Instead, he was forced to obey as the guard instructed him to spin slowly in a circle with his arms outstretched in a T, and felt himself almost blushing with the humiliation of being scrutinized so closely. Even with his back turned his could hear the movement of styluses against PADDs and feel the eyes of his captors upon him. When he was facing them, however, he hid his embarrassment with as flinty-eyed a stare as he could manage.

"Good physical condition," the male commented offhandedly, glancing down at his PADD. "He'd do well in the mines. Or colony building."

"Attractive, too," the woman agreed thoughtfully, looking him up and down as if he were livestock or a hunk of meat. It was hardly how he was used to being examined by a member of the fairer sex. The woman continued dispassionately, "He'll bring in the credits."

Somehow, more than anything else, this sent chills down his spine.

Then the man met his eyes and addressed him for the first time. "Dress." Kirk found himself obeying with muscles he couldn't control, pulling on a too-large, pale green outfit. Then the man said to the guard, "There should be space for this group in Holding Room 16. Take 'em up."

The guard affirmed the order with a nod before leading Kirk out through another set of doors. As they closed behind him, he thought he heard the woman say to her partner, "You know, I'd always imagined Captain Kirk to be a little bit taller."

Then the thick doors shut behind him and extinguished any chance of his hearing the reply.

* * *

McCoy knew that Spock was going to collapse about ten seconds before Spock himself would believe it. The stubborn Vulcan actually thought that he could keep going indefinitely, that if he could just muster the willpower there would be no weakness and no pain and no failure. This thought flashed into McCoy's mind plain as day, and McCoy was just about to disabuse him of the notion when Spock's knees buckled and he fell, the arm he had around McCoy's shoulders pulling both of them down. McCoy swore as he staggered into the near wall, doing his best to keep Spock from sliding completely to the floor. Finally he gritted his teeth and managed to wrangle the Vulcan into a semi-standing position against the wall, gripping Spock's arms to hold him there. Spock's head hung forward and they were both breathing heavily.

"Well?" McCoy demanded, suddenly aware of the pain over his own hip. He wanted to reach for his scanner but didn't want to let go of Spock, who still wasn't quite standing under his own power. Luckily for him the Vulcan always seemed to know what was going on in his own body. "What happened?"

Spock took a deep breath and raised his head before answering. They were nearing the end of the long corridor, and had taken nearly forty-five minutes to peer into all but the last three windows and scan the faces of hundreds, if not thousands, of captive beings. Men and women and children and the elderly, all sorted neatly—but no Jim. And try as he might to stave off his pessimism McCoy was beginning to doubt they ever would find him. Still, Spock's determination—which continued to impinge occasionally upon McCoy's consciousness—was unshakeable. They weren't going to give up and McCoy couldn't see any reason to try to argue it with him. Now, as the Vulcan raised his head, McCoy met his eyes. "I only need…a moment," Spock said. His face was expressionless, but only with the exhausted mask of pain that McCoy had come to know quite well. "My condition has not worsened. I am merely…" he trailed off, and didn't seem to feel the need to finish the statement. After a moment he straightened slightly. "We must continue."

"We should find a place to rest," McCoy countered, still not daring to release the Vulcan's arms. He knew it made sense to keep going, but someone had to look out for Spock and it'd long since become obvious that Spock wasn't going to.

At this, Spock tried feebly to shake him free, but McCoy dug his fingers into his thin biceps. The Vulcan sighed slightly. "There are only three more rooms in this corridor. To rest now, and here, would be illogical." He glanced at the bodies still on the floor several meters away, and involuntarily McCoy did as well, guilt flaring in him again. "There is also no shelter here, and more guards are sure to arrive. I am fine now, Doctor."

"Like hell," McCoy said tiredly. How many times in the last day and a half had they had this conversation? He wasn't sure, but he knew he'd lost every time and would continue to lose as long as Jim was missing. An unexpected bitterness arose in him, toward Spock and toward himself and Jim and the whole damn situation. Of course none of them were actually to blame, but McCoy was just tired, too tired to care and too exhausted to curtail his feelings. He hadn't slept the night before. He'd spent it sitting up in the darkness and the cold, watching the world around them, taut with the fear that something he couldn't defend them from would jump out of the darkness. And then it had. He sighed, and forced himself to think of the present, to put away all of his bad feelings until, at the very least, a better time. Then he released Spock's arms, and was satisfied if not pleased to note that the Vulcan remained standing. McCoy looked him up and down once before finally admitting with a grimace, "You're right. We can't stay here."

Spock only nodded once, his eyes closing with some hidden effort. Every muscle seemed tensed. Then he looked at McCoy again. They didn't need to exchange words. McCoy bent to pick up his disruptor, which he'd dropped as soon as Spock started to fall, then took his place at Spock's side.

He wasn't quite able to shake the bitterness, though, and as they hobbled to each remaining door and scanned the faces inside, he tried to understand where in his psyche it was coming from. He knew why he was angry at the situation, of course, and at his own helplessness and foolish mistakes. But what in the galaxy, he wondered, was he angry at Spock for? The Vulcan was only acting as an exemplary first officer and friend, pursuing Jim with the kind of single-minded loyalty that most captains—and friends, for that matter—only ever _dreamed_ of commanding. McCoy frowned at himself, realizing that his bitterness arose from emotions he'd no right to entertain. It was beyond silly to feel jealous of his two friends. Hell, he was _glad_ that Spock and Jim had each other; God knew neither one would've survived until now if they didn't. And the fact that either of them would sacrifice their lives for _him_ anytime, without hesitation—and had tried to, on more than one occasion—well, that had to be more than enough for him.

"All women," Spock reported at the last window.

McCoy didn't bother to confirm this. He'd seen enough of the same in the last half hour, and there were never men in the women's cells. "Let's get out of here, then." As he glanced back once more at the bodies they'd left down the hall, however, an idea hit him and he stopped short. "Stay here, Spock," he ordered, disentangling himself from the Vulcan. Spock said nothing but leaned obediently against the wall.

McCoy approached the man Spock had stunned, doing his best to ignore the bloody corpse he'd created. He could spend time regretting later. Now, he had a task to accomplish. He began to strip the stunned man of his uniform, glad in a sickened sort of way that it hadn't been touched by any of his victim's blood. Beneath its hood the stunned man's face was just that—a man's face. McCoy ignored a new upsurge of guilt. The man's pants and shirt were considerably larger than his and once he had freed them from the body, he pulled them on over his Starfleet uniform. He was aware of Spock watching him. He returned to the Vulcan's side fully dressed, only holding the man's mask in his hand.

"I'd've gotten the other one for you, but it's covered in blood and entrails. Plus, what with that limp I don't think you could fool anybody if you tried."

Spock closed his eyes, and for another fleeting moment McCoy could feel the anguish of his forced helplessness, layered atop real physical exhaustion and that ever-present _need_ to find Jim. Frowning, McCoy pushed the alien feelings out of his mind, more sure than ever that Spock had no idea what was going on. Spock would never be content knowing that someone was, however unintentionally, snooping around in his mind. The Vulcan's next words, as he opened his eyes and looked at McCoy with sudden amusement, attested to his obliviousness. "Doctor," he said mildly, "I believe you are acting quite logically."

McCoy shook his head, the absurdity of the statement overriding, for the moment, even his concern. He almost smiled. "No need to sound so surprised, Mr. Spock."

Spock continued to regard him pleasantly. "Surprised, Doctor? I am merely…pleased."

They looked at each other for a moment. A beat later, however, they were solemn again. The banter was a respite from a horrible situation, McCoy realized, a shadow of normalcy. But they could only pretend that things were all right for so long, and already the reprieve had overstayed its welcome.

"We must be prepared for danger or hostility upon leaving this area," Spock said gravely, as if their last exchange had never happened. "We are likely to encounter more guards."

McCoy nodded. "I know."

"You will not be able to assist me without appearing, at best, suspicious."

McCoy sighed in mild exasperation. "Yes, Spock, I know." He realized a moment later, though, that Spock's bland statement only served to cover up the Vulcan's acute lack of enthusiasm about the task of walking alone. When Spock didn't reply, he glanced meaningfully at the nearest of the smaller doors. "Well, I'm not sure there's any sense in procrastinating."

Spock nodded tightly. McCoy took a deep breath, then pulled on the guard's hood. It smelled stale, he found, but was surprisingly soft on the inside. He supposed he'd found the silver lining. Or the black lining, as it were. He helped Spock to the nearest door, then stared at it, trying to quiet the butterflies in his stomach. They'd no idea what was on the other side. Given all their luck they'd probably stumble into the guards' rec room or something equally horrible.

Oblivious to or uninterested in McCoy's pessimism, Spock produced the tape he'd lifted from their captor and inserted it into the slot beside the door. This time, the computer did not speak but the doors swooshed open. The hallway they stood looking into was shorter than the one they'd come from, but it was anything but empty. McCoy met Spock's eyes once before retrieving the tape, sliding fully behind the Vulcan and aiming the disruptor at his back.

Suddenly aware that his heart was pounding, McCoy stepped forward and gestured with the disruptor for Spock to do the same. All eyes had to be on them, he was sure, and they were going to get found out and they had to've been damn fools for even thinking that this would work. Then Spock limped forward and McCoy wondered wildly what they'd do if Spock were to collapse again _now_.

But Spock didn't fall, and as McCoy followed close behind them with the disruptor he realized that no one was paying them any mind at all. And—he realized with mixed relief and embarrassment—the hallways wasn't exactly crawling with guards. A patrolling pair of two were walking away from them, and one seemed to be meandering toward the door they'd come from, but aside from them the only other people in the hallway were wearing civilian clothes and seemed to have other things to do.

They started forward, Spock limping so heavily that McCoy couldn't keep from cringing in sympathy behind his mask. There had to be somewhere to go that they could rest, he thought, half trying to convince himself, some empty room or closet into which they could disappear without being noticed. He glanced as surreptitiously as he could at the doors they passed. Most of these were labeled with names: Berry, Oberg, Ferrentino, Zhao, Royce, Javor, Morgan, and so on. McCoy tried to guess what might be behind the doors. Offices? Special holding cells?

This hallway ended more abruptly than the first, splitting into three sets of doors. The ones on the left and right were identical to those they'd seen before, but the larger pair in the center belonged, quite plainly, to a turbolift.

McCoy gestured with the disruptor toward the central doors. "What do you say we take our chances?" he muttered.

"The turbolift?"

"It's something different."

Spock nodded.

After glancing back once more to be sure no one had noticed the exchange, McCoy fumbled the tape from his pocket and stepped in front of Spock to slide it into the slot. The heavy disruptor slipped toward the floor as he did so, and he hoped vehemently that his awkwardness didn't appear as blindingly obvious as it felt. He was sweating under the soft material of the hood.

Finally the doors opened without incident and McCoy ushered Spock inside.

As soon as they were alone, Spock's whole posture changed and he slumped exhaustedly against the nearest wall. McCoy was at his side in a moment, groping in his bag for the medical scanner until Spock's voice arrested him.

"Doctor." It was gravelly with repressed pain but sharp, and the tone only eased slightly as he continued. "We cannot remain indefinitely in this turbolift. We must choose a destination quickly."

"I know that," McCoy snapped. He could feel his fear turning to prickly anger, as if yelling at Spock was somehow better than admitting weakness to him. "I was _trying_ to see if you're going to collapse again."

"I will not."

"That's what you thought the last time."

Spock pressed his lips together and regarded him quizzically for a moment, then seemed to decide to simply, and understandably, ignore McCoy's statement. "I am not in danger and we must continue. It is logical to do so. You are thinking emotionally."

"Of course I am," McCoy said abruptly, stress and a rising temper pulling from him words he'd had no intention to share. "I'm caring, Spock, a human emotion, because you're my friend and that actually means something to me. Look. I know Jim's out there. I _know_ we have to find him. But I have to take care of the both of you, do you hear, and I'm not going to let you destroy yourself to save him. He's not worth any more than you are. Or is _that_ so illogical?"

"I think that it is illogical to linger in this turbolift," Spock said. "I suggest we do not do so."

"Fine." McCoy stepped back from the turbolift controls, so that the Vulcan could have full access to them. He didn't want to discuss what he'd just said. "Take us where you see fit."

Spock nodded, winced, and reached across to turn the handle. As the turbolift lurched into downward motion, Spock stumbled and McCoy grabbed him, torn between maintaining his anger doctoring the Vulcan once again. He settled for holding Spock up against the wall and asking, "Why are we going down?"

"Presumably, we will find 'something different,'" Spock said. At least, McCoy thought, he hadn't answered literally with _Because I pushed the handle downward_. "If we are fortunate, we may find an area with little activity. I am not…opposed to resting, whatever you may believe."

McCoy frowned. "If we're fortunate."

Spock looked at him. "Yes, Doctor."

Then the turbolift slowed to a halt. McCoy let go of Spock just before the doors opened and raised the disruptor at him. Then the doors did open and what McCoy saw made him stare and step backward in shock.

Immediately in front of him, two guards, holding disruptor rifles of their own as they led a long line of captives down the hall. And between them, looking shocked and surprised as McCoy, was one Captain James T. Kirk.


	10. Chapter 10

It was the last scene in the galaxy that Kirk wanted to see: Spock looking utterly worn and defeated, face dirty and bruised and tightened into a harsh grimace as a masked guard trained a disruptor rifle at the center of his back. He could feel his heart sinking, his hopes falling even as his legs refused to carry him forward toward his captured first officer.

Then the masked figure swung his disruptor to the left and a bolt floored the guard behind Kirk. A phaser appeared in Spock's hand and a second later the guard to Kirk's right dropped to the floor as well, stunned.

He tried to call out Spock's name but the implant kept his mouth from moving. But Spock was already crossing the space between them. "Jim!" Spock said, stopping right before him and gripping his arms. Kirk could see the almost-smile on his face and fought the paralysis, wanting to reach out, to touch Spock, to show his gratitude and relief and just how damn happy he was to see him… to see the both of them. For Bones had pulled off his mask and stepped forward as well, medical scanner in one hand.

"Jim," Spock said again, more urgently this time. Kirk fought to at least acknowledge his friends and managed a small smile as he locked eyes with Spock. But he quickly froze it into a frown as he lifted his hand to point toward the implant scar in the back of his neck. It seemed all his arm was willing to do.

Neither of his officers seemed to understand. Spock's expression had shifted from pleased to plainly worried. Bones had been looking at the felled guard, but now focused all of his attention on Kirk. If it were possible, his frown only deepened.

"He might be drugged," McCoy said to Spock. "Jim, can you hear me?"

When his neck refused to move his stretched his mouth into another smile.

"Doctor, we must free him," Spock said, producing a small metal cylinder from one of the many pockets in the coat he wore. Kirk resolved to ask him where he had gotten that jacket… later. "The bonds appear to be the same," he added thoughtfully. Kirk noticed for the first time just how worn he really seemed, and in how much pain. Bones, too, was clearly weary. He wondered what they had been through to get to him. He had a feeling he didn't want to know.

Spock held the cylinder to his bonds, and when the metallic material loosened he pulled it away from Kirk's unresponsive hands. "Doctor," Spock said, looking Kirk up and down as if he weren't sure how to proceed. "Your assistance. Please."

Bones had walked the length of the line of slaves behind Kirk. Now he shook his head. "We can't leave the rest of them." The slaves were staring at them, fidgeting though their own implants kept them from speaking or moving forward. Kirk wanted to free them too. Then they had to get out of here.

"We do not have the time," Spock said.

"We can't just—"

"Doctor." This time Spock's tone brooked no argument, and he broke eye contact with Kirk and looked to the turbolift with a grimace. When he spoke again his voice was ragged. "We should return the way we came."

"Come on, Jim," Bones said softly, placing a hand on Kirk's arm to guide him. Suddenly Kirk's legs were willing to move, propelling him in the direction that McCoy had indicated. Good, Kirk thought. He might not be free, but at least if he could move by his officers' blessing they might have a chance of getting out of here alive. Still, they were far from out of danger.

_More guards. _He tried to push the words out, but the implant still held him silent.

Once in the turbolift, he tried to speak again but still his mouth refused and he had to fight down frustration that he had no way to express. McCoy was now whirring his medical scanner by Kirk's ear. Spock had fallen back against the wall of the turbolift as soon as they were inside and stood with his eyes closed and his fists clenched, breathing shallowly. Kirk ignored the scanner and fought down a new wave of worry.

"Spock!" McCoy had looked up from the results of his scan and addressed the Vulcan as soon as Spock met his gaze, seemingly oblivious—or perhaps simply used to—his obvious pain. "There's a chip," he said triumphantly. "A chip in his brainstem and it's interfering with his brainwaves. If we can get him to the _Enterprise_ I should be able to—"

He was interrupted by the blaring of an alarm that began to flash yellow above their heads. The turbolift doors slid open, apparently unexpectedly, for Spock's head jerked up and his eyes widened as he read the floor number on the opposite wall.

Then pain that made yesterday's torture pale in comparison slammed through Kirk and he fell boneless to the floor, the implant holding his limbs in place where they landed. His head was tearing itself apart, ripping straight down the center and he couldn't take it any more than he could move and all he could do was scream. Spock dropped to his knees beside him, and he was aware vaguely disruptor bolts searing into the wall above them as the Vulcan touched his face and seemed to concentrate on something, something, and for a moment Kirk thought the pain was lessening, and he could almost think again. At the door Bones was returning fire but falling back, and then someone was pulling Spock up by the arm and yelling at him words of urgency that for some reason Kirk could not quite understand.

And then his two friends were gone, replaced by a group of men in black who hauled Kirk upright and touched something to the back of his neck so that as suddenly as it had come, the pain was gone. Seconds later, the alarm ceased, the lights returned to normal, and he was left slumped between two guards who regarded him silently.

"Stand," said a third, and Kirk cursed his legs as they straightened to obey.

The guards led him back to the others, and though he fought will all his will his body would not resist. Finally, his head hung forward, and he closed his eyes against bitter disappointment.

They had been so close, he thought. So close, but they had never really stood a chance.

* * *

McCoy pulled Spock around a corner, blasted the two remaining guards to hell, then dragged the hobbling Vulcan down several blissfully empty corridors and into a small storage room and shut and locked the door. He didn't think anyone had seen him, and though he knew he'd regret losing Jim and the deaths of the guards later, he couldn't help but feel relief. Still, he realized, they wouldn't be able to stay in the storage closet indefinitely, even though he felt giddy with pain and adrenaline and Spock had slumped against the corner next to a shelf of spare replicator parts, his leg held up in stork position once more.

Reality seemed to sink in all at once as McCoy stood with the disruptor still in his hands, taking deep breath after deep breath in the near-darkness of the storage closet. They had found Jim, found him and managed to lose him again. Those had been the best circumstances they could've hoped for for a rescue, undoubtedly—only two guards, alone in a basement corridor with the element of surprise on their side—but still they'd failed. How the devil were they supposed to succeed in any other set of circumstances? He resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands and looked at Spock instead. The Vulcan seemed lost in his own mind, and for a moment McCoy was irrationally worried that he'd recede into there and never come out.

"Spock," he tried. Spock didn't bother to acknowledge his voice. The Vulcan's sense of defeat was flooding McCoy's mind through the link and he found himself frustrated at it. But Spock was mourning the loss of Jim, and no matter how much he insisted he was fine there would be no consoling him for this one. He'd have to push him instead, if they were ever to get moving. "_Spock_," he said again more forcefully, this time through gritted teeth. Finally, Spock looked up. "We can't stay here forever," McCoy said bluntly. "At least three guards saw us run. It's got to be only a matter of time before they start searching for us."

Spock only took a deep breath that turned into a grimace. McCoy could feel his desperation now, just how close the Vulcan was to simply giving up, and he felt his own resolve harden in response.

"Spock!" McCoy snapped for a third time. He felt Spock grappling with his emotions, fighting a battle that hours of pain and stress and worry made nearly impossible to win.

"The chip," Spock said hoarsely.

"It was driving him insane," McCoy told him what his medical scanner had read shortly before the guards had come. "That's why I pulled you away, Spock. If we'd tried to take him with us…" He shook his head. "It would've made him go mad."

Now Spock closed his eyes and nodded slightly. Whatever it had cost him, he was in control of himself once more. "The implant must have sensed his location," he said slowly, then paused to clench his teeth and ride out a surge of pain. Almost reflexively McCoy waved the medical scanner over him, then pulled out one of their last painkillers and administered it before Spock could protest. The Vulcan frowned slightly but went on, "Prisoners must not be permitted beyond a certain boundary. We most likely passed it shortly before the turbolift halted and the guards appeared. Certainly," he added, "An effective means of keeping slaves within the facility."

Aboard the _Enterprise,_ on any other day, McCoy would have taken the opportunity to jump on Spock and accuse him of callousness toward their captain's life. But here, and after all they'd been through, there seemed no point. He _knew_ that Jim meant more to Spock than his own life, and this mission was only the latest iteration of that truth. If Spock seemed callous it was because the analysis was all that kept him from sliding into a deep well of emotions from which there might be no escape. But were these thoughts were coming out of his brain or Spock's? He was beginning to want rather desperately to mention the mental link, Spock's pride be damned, but they had more pressing issues now.

Spock was watching him with eyebrow cocked, perhaps surprised by McCoy's lack of reaction. "The chip will, of course, have to be removed."

"And how do you propose we do that, Spock?" McCoy said. "Aboard the _Enterprise_, with the right equipment, I could. But here? With nothing but a field medkit? Even if we _do_ find him again, it's serious brain surgery." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Spock. It'd kill him."

Spock frowned. "Then you would see Jim driven mad."

"No, Spock, _I _wouldn't," McCoy protested wearily. "But if we can't remove the chip or _him_ from his place I don't—" he stopped, and looked at the cement floor, aware that he was about to voice the words no doctor ever wanted to say. "I don't know how to save him."

Then he looked up, expecting disapproval or anger or disappointment or any of a number of emotions Spock would later deny through his teeth. Instead, he saw Spock's eyes rolling back in his head, the Vulcan sliding down the wall as his good leg buckled, and just barely managed to catch him in time to keep his head from hitting the floor when he crumpled.

* * *

Chekov knew, of course, that there was a such thing as too much hope. One didn't hope to earn a million credits for nothing, or to become famous overnight or to meet the girl of his dreams at age twenty-four on a starship. So he knew, of course, that to hope to find the captain and Dr. McCoy and Mr. Spock alive and well when all evidence—well, nearly all evidence—pointed to the contrary was perhaps a bit silly at best.

Still, he couldn't help but continue to work at Spock's console on the problem of warping the planet's magnetic field with gravitational waves produced by the ship's own artificial gravity drive. If they could make communications to the planet…well, he wasn't exactly sure what then, but he supposed if there was anything left to do it was that. Several hours into the work now, he could see that he needed were a few adjustments, a tweak in an equation here, a different wavelength there, and so on. Unfortunately, he was running into the boundaries of his knowledge and Engineering had long since ceased sending him useful messages.

As it turned out, Uhura was just as eager to solve the problem and her communications expertise was exactly what they needed for the last of the subspace equations. He joined her at her communications station and they worked, pulling together the disparate bits of a program that might actually work to punch through the interference.

Chekov was actually close to congratulating them for a job well done when they were interrupted by a message from Starfleet command. Uhura's face fell as it came through her earpiece, and when she relayed it to Scott (who was still taking the charred shuttlescraft apart somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship) he understood exactly why.

"Two hours?" Scott repeated through the comm. unit.

"Yes, sir," Uhura said. "Then we're to report to Starbase 6 to receive our new orders and," she paused and swallowed, "and our new captain."

Scott's voice was grim over the intercom. "Aye. Thank ye lieutenant." Then he cut the connection.

Chekov glanced at Uhura and the progress they'd already made. He knew it was foolish. He'd know it foolish since the very start, since that fateful report of charred bodies in the lake. But still. If they could finish in time, there was a chance, always that chance—

He straightened himself up in his chair, adjusting his uniform though it didn't really need to be adjusted. "Come now lieutenant," he said. "Ve have some work to do yet."


	11. Chapter 11

"Spock. Spock." The voice was low but incessant, and Spock reached out a hand to push it away. Someone set his hand back on his chest. As he awoke he became aware of his surroundings in increments, disappointment the first to return, then the pain, and finally the memory of all that had transpired since they'd crash-landed on Catelus II. For a moment he wished it hadn't. Jim was gone because he and Doctor McCoy had failed him.

"Spock, are you all right?" McCoy was asking.

He opened his eyes and noticed that he was on his back on a hard tiled floor, his head resting across the doctor's knees. He started to sit up, and the effort was so painful that he felt yet another wave of frustration at his failing body, and at circumstances that he should have been able to change. McCoy, of course, moved in to help as soon as his struggle became apparent. The doctor kept his hands on Spock's arms as Spock rode out the agony in his chest and leg that inevitably followed the movement.

He did not respond to Dr. McCoy's question because he had long since past the point where he could delude even himself of its answer. Wrestling with pain and guilt and frustration, he was far from all right.

"Look, Spock, we need a plan," McCoy said once Spock had regained composure, and glared at him with a determination that he found he could no longer match. "I don't know why the guards haven't found us yet. We probably just killed three of their men, and this is a storage room for replicator parts—not a secret hideout. If we don't think of something soon…"

Spock nodded. His mind was working, again, all they had seen beginning to form a coherent picture in his mind. "They may be occupied," he realized.

McCoy regarded him quizzically. "What do you mean, occupied? Who?"

"The guards, Doctor," Spock said impatiently. "It would explain why they have not yet found us. If most are busy with some other task, there may be few or none even searching for us."

"What else could they be doing?"

Spock shook his head slightly. There were several events that might occur at a slaving compound which would require the presence of most of the facility's guards. Unfortunately, none would bode well for the captain, even if they had saved him from the madness in time.

"Well we still can't have much time," McCoy said.

"No," Spock agreed. He pressed his lips together, aware that the doctor's prodding meant that he expected Spock to produce a solution, some logical or inspired alternative that McCoy had yet been unable to see. He only wished that his head would cease its spinning so that he could think. "We are…in a storage closet for replicator pieces, are we not?"

At this, McCoy looked concerned and answered "We are" somewhat hesitantly.

"Are such closets not usually situated near the service shafts?" Spock said.

A grin spread slowly across McCoy's haggard face. "Why yes, Mr. Spock, I do believe they are. And it'll probably go around to all of the replicators in this place." He stood, and winced, but walked over to the nearest wall and began inspecting it. "There should be a hatch, right?"

"Most likely."

Spock waited as McCoy made his way around the room, searching the walls for a telltale seam or keypad. He reached Spock again, frowning. "None in here, but it was a good idea," he said. "I'll check outside."

Spock gave a slight nod, which McCoy returned sharply before picking up the disruptor rifle, taking a deep breath, and stepping into the hall. The doors shut behind him. Spock waited tensely, his internal clock registering the time: thirty seconds…forty-five…fifty… He strained his ears strained to pick up any telling noise that might be coming from the hall. He did not like the doctor risking himself in this way, he realized, especially now that Jim's plight seemed even more hopeless than before. Since they had been stranded he'd come to rely on the doctor in more ways than one, and the possibility that he might lose him as well...really did not bear thinking about.

McCoy returned in a hurry, leaning back against the wall as the doors shut beside him. "You were right, Spock," he said. "It's just barely across the hall and the memory tape opens it. I thought I heard footsteps just now, though, so we'd better wait a minute in here before we go." He looked Spock over for a moment. "It's about chest-high, d'you think you'll be able to make it? I can give you a boost when we're out there."

Spock sighed slightly, but wrapped his arm a little more securely around his aching ribs. "Need I remind you that we do not have a choice," he said. It wasn't exactly a question. "This method shall have to suffice."

"Spock," McCoy said, and his tone was surprisingly gentle. "We do have a choice. We have had one. And I think you've been making the right one. I know how much Jim means to you."

Spock looked at the ground. The usual phrases _best captain in the fleet_ and _invaluable officer_ and _duty_ tumbled through his mind, but this time he could not bring himself to offer them as justifications for his actions. No, the truth was a far more emotional one: Jim was his friend, his brother, the one man he cared about more than any other. It was not logical, but there could be no denying it.

"Right," McCoy said distractedly. He looked at the floor, then met Spock's eyes. "We might escape, Spock," he said, and it was clear that he was changing the subject to whatever had just drawn his attention. "But what are we doing to do if we can't save Jim? I mean, what are _you_ going to do?"

This was not a question that Spock had been anticipating, and his head snapped up as he tried to think of some answer that would not release or reveal the deluge of emotions that he now held so tenuously in check. "Doctor," he said, and was disturbed when his voice broke, "I will—" He stopped, for it was not that there was no suitable answer. There simply was no answer. To return, to be assigned another captain, to take each week without Jim's easy presence—well, he would survive, work and eat and sleep. But perhaps nothing more.

"Ah," McCoy said, as though he had somehow heard and understood all that Spock could not say. His voice was more kindly than Spock had expected. In fact, he seemed to be regarding Spock with…understanding. Or perhaps pity. "We will do our best, Spock. There might be another way."

Spock straightened up. "We have not been discovered. We should go."

"Right," McCoy said. "I suppose we should." Then a moment of hesitation, and until finally he added, "I understand, Spock. I mean I really… understand."

Spock's eyes closed and he shook his head slightly, aware of the anguish that slipped back onto his face but unable to curb it. Then he forced his eyes open and stared straight ahead as he made his reply. "No Doctor. I don't believe you do."

McCoy's expression was odd and he took a breath as if to speak, but released it. "Are you ready?" he asked instead, and Spock nodded.

He then began the laborious process of standing, tilting forward and pressing his hands to the floor as maneuvered his unbroken leg into a position where it might take his weight. He was aware that he grimaced as he did so, but could no longer find the energy to care. All that mattered was that he did. Of course, no sooner had he made it to one knee than McCoy was at his side, offering his silent support.

They listened at the door for a moment before venturing into the hallway, which was fortunately empty. At least, for them. The possibility that the guards were gathered in one place attending to other business was not a particularly comforting thought in terms of Kirk's prospects for survival or freedom. There was of course the slightest chance that Kirk himself had created a diversion of some sort to attract their attention…but after their last encounter, it had been clear that the captain was not himself. If the guards were gone, it was undoubtedly for something far more distasteful,. But he suppressed his concern, for if the slaves were being moved or sold already—no. It was best not to speculate.

"It's here," McCoy said unnecessarily, guiding Spock to a hatch with a keypad across the hall and slightly to the right of the storage room. The doctor slid the memory tape into the controls and the hatch opened. Spock contemplated the opening for a moment, realizing that there would be no easy way inside.

Finally he braced his hands on the edge of the opening and jumped slightly on his good leg. He was able to get most of his torso in and felt McCoy's hands form a harness under his undamaged foot. But the jump had not been enough to propel him all the way in or to let him get a handhold inside and he fell backwards, his chest crashing down onto the edge of the opening. This time at the audible snap of already abused ribs he could not contain a groan and was barely aware that McCoy managed to shove him the rest of the way in. He had been aware that this might happen of course, though the pain that followed still managed to be something of a surprise and for a moment he could only lay on his side, his arms crossed against his side. Cracked ribs had finally broken, and if he was not careful it might be only a matter of time before one or the other inflicted more damage than his body could handle.

Still, he gritted his teeth and pushed himself up as McCoy heaved himself with a grunt into the shaft. Here, and at this moment, there was nothing the doctor could do, and after his conversation with McCoy he could feel a renewed urgency to find Jim before it was too late. His own condition did not, and could not, matter.

"Spock, are you all right?" McCoy was asking, again, as if the answer might somehow have changed since he'd last posed the question.

"We should follow this shaft to the nearest turbolift, or a map of the facility," Spock said. His breathing was shallow, every moment was agony, and the dizziness had returned full force, but it did not matter. For his mind had finally alighted on an alternative-not death, and not madness, but life.

"I saw what happened Spock, don't give me that-"

"Doctor," Spock interrupted, his tone forceful. "I may be able to save Jim."

* * *

Kirk wanted to know where they were taking him. But as always his voice would not cooperate no matter how hard he fought, and he was left trudging along behind a pale, pudgy man through hallway after hallway, deeper and deeper into the facility. Still, he glared at any guard that passed near him and found himself fantasizing about grabbing each one by the shoulder and slamming a fist into his face, if only to demand the answers and rights that he wanted and needed and deserved. But his legs marched obediently on and his arms would do nothing more than swing harmlessly by his side.

So he bit down his anger, channeling it forcefully into alertness for any moment that he could possibly take advantage of. Of course none came, and as the minutes passed he found his thoughts drawn back inexorably to Spock, and to Bones.

As relieved as he had been to see them, alive and attempting his rescue, he did not like that they were here. They were in grave danger, and the longer they remained in the compound the worse it would be. Not to mention that they'd been dirty and tired and hurt and Spock especially had seemed in no shape be conscious, let alone to mount a rescue. Of course, Kirk knew, he absolutely understood the Vulcan's desire to find him but (regardless of how he might have acted had the tables been turned) his life wasn't worth it. Worth both of theirs. Spock and Bones should have been out on the surface, avoiding his captors and looking for a way to contact the _Enterprise_ and save themselves from the fate he suffered now. He had sacrificed himself and endured torture for his friends' safety, and the thought that it might all have been for nothing made him feel sick. They simply shouldn't be here at all, not for him, not for any reason. For Spock or Bones to perish in the attempt to save him would be…well, quite possibly the worst send-off for a new life of slavery that he could imagine. And that he could do nothing to help them or dissuade them from trying was fundamentally painful and perhaps the worst feeling of all.

The question of where he was going was finally answered when the guards brought them to a long curved room that might have been part of a ring or an arc. The tighter side of the curve was plated in metal and lined with heavy doors. Queued by each was a chain of slaves similar to Kirk's, though they varied; one might be women, or a line of children, or (as he realized with a jolt of horror) a line in which every being was missing a limb or an eye or part of their face. At the front of each, one guard had detached a slave from the line and held him or her by a chain attached to the soft golden cuffs. As he passed one line, he recognized the female Klingon he had been processed with, and gave her a small smile. But he was swept by her too quickly to see any reaction.

Kirk's line was brought in front of a door as well. In the middle this time, he watched as one of his guards detached the man at the front and held him in the same ready position. There seemed to be an air of dread or excitement about the whole exercise, and he waited with his heart pounding for what might come next. What was on the other side of those doors?

Then a buzzer sounded, and altogether the doors slid open. Each guard stepped through with their charge.

Craning to see around the others, Kirk just barely caught a glimpse of a small arena and an audience, murmuring in anticipation, who began to stand and point as the first beings were brought before them. Then the doors slid shut and Kirk was left standing, waiting for his own turn to be shown.

The rumble of a loudspeaker started up behind the doors and he wished with all of his might that Spock and Bones had gone far, far away.

* * *

Scott could not keep his eyes from straying to the chronometer as he worked, silly as he knew it was to watch the thing. Two hours, one hour, forty minutes, thirty, twenty. Now that it read ten he could barely believe it. But Starfleet had been quite convinced by the evidence and clear in their orders-no more missions without a captain, first officer, _and _CMO, thank you very much-and unless Scott reached a breakthrough in the next ten minutes they'd have to be off or face charges of desertion or worse.

His initial scan of the warp core had turned up nothing but a now-familiar feeling that something wasn't right, and unfortunately to run the full diagnostics took time. The computers were still working through it but they wouldn't finish until they were long since docked at Starbase 6, and by then…well, by then the_ Enterprise_ would probably have a new captain and new orders and it'd be foolish to keep trying for anything different.

He was about to take the turbolift up to the bridge, so that he could at least be there to make the order to leave in person. The crew deserved that, if nothing else, for he knew how highly they'd all thought of the captain. He was surprised, however, to be nearly bowled over by Chekov, who shot from the lift at a near run as Scott raised his own hand to operate the controls.

"Sair!" Chekov gasped, skidding to a halt in front of Scott. "Uhura and I have done it! We've broken through the magnetic field and _sair_." His brown eyes locked onto Scott's. "There are communications on that planet. Whatever happened down there…the landing party was not alone."

Scott glanced at the chronometer. Six minutes. "D'you have any idea what those communications were, ensign?"

"No sair," Chekov said, shaking his head emphatically. "But if you could give us just a little more time, we can find out. Just a little more. I know it's in wiolation of Starfleet orders but…sair, it is the captain." He paused and when he looked at Scott the engineer could see all the devotion, the loyalty, the _love _that he knew Kirk inspired in his crew. "If there is a chance at all..."

Scott looked at the chronometer again—five minutes now—and sighed. Direct violation of orders. Starfleet was not going to be happy about this, but he also knew he'd no other option. "Chekov, you have your time," he said. "Now let's make it worth the charges."


	12. Chapter 12

It was an auction of sorts, though of course far more technologically advanced than the ones he'd read about on old Earth. Led out onto a stage at the bottom of a small arena, Kirk was examined critically and loudly from all sides by a rude audience that ranged from burly Orion slavers to men and women who wouldn't have looked out of place on the _Enterprise_. When it came his turn to be bid for, a spotlight shone above his head and a loud voice rumbled a description of his better qualities as the viewscreen behind him displayed stats no doubt garnered during his physical.

He wanted to scowl, to rage, to at least show the slavers what they were bargaining for but the guard's orders had been specific and his implant made sure he complied: no movement except to walk forward or turn when ordered, no speech, and no displays of emotion on his face or otherwise. As such he was unable even to turn his head to see the entire crowd that surrounded him. He felt weak and helpless and ashamed and reflected grimly that, after four good years aboard the _Enterprise_, his luck seemed to have finally run out. Now he would lose everything he had ever loved or cared for, not just his freedom but his ship, his command, his life and his best friends. He would become a slave and there was not a thing he could do about it.

So he stood under the bright lights and the scrutiny of his captors, jaw set because his face had frozen, and wondered with an almost academic detachment how in the galaxy he would survive this whole if there really was no way out. He thought, of course, about his friends and regretted that as their commander, he had failed to keep them safe.

Bids, entered by each prospective buyer into computers affixed to each seat in the arena, began to appear on the viewscreen, which Kirk could see only out of the corner of his eye. The announcing voice, which apparently belonged to some slaver that Kirk couldn't see, rattled them off as they appeared and encouraged more, rousing the crowd like any expert salesman. Finally, after an exchange that Kirk could barely follow though listened with all his will, the voice boomed out a single word: "Sold!"

Sold.

He had been captured before, cut off from his ship, thrown into cells and dungeons and made to perform for various cruel masters, but never like this. Hidden in the bowels of a planet the Federation thought empty, the _Enterprise_ incapable of even the simplest sensor search, separated from Spock and Bones who were, themselves, just fighting to stay alive…he felt more alone than he could remember, and more vulnerable. There would be no last minute rescue—or rather, it had already failed. He was Captain James T. Kirk of the _U.S.S. Enterprise_ and here, that fact meant absolutely nothing.

A new guard came from behind him and ordered him to walk in the direction of a door on the other side of the arena. He could feel the crowd's eyes on him as he walked and wondered how many recognized him, the great Captain Kirk, reduced to blind obedience by a few mistakes and an implant in the back of his neck.

He was led to what seemed to be a holding pen, a large cage in which several newly-sold beings now stood or squatted. He could feel the implant's influence lessen slightly as he entered, but he forced his face to retain its rigidity rather than let any of his anguish show. He was grieving, he realized, for the life he'd had, and all its wasted potential. No beach to walk on… no beach, no ship, no alien planets no bridge no Spock no Bones no crew no _Enterprise_.

The minutes ticked by. Others were added, and the occasional fellow slave was called by a number that he or she responded to by walking up to the door of the cage and standing stiffly at attention. Then the door would open and a masked guard would collect the unfortunate soul and disappear into another corridor. Of course Kirk tried to run for the door as soon as it opened, but of course the implant would not allow it. Still, at each opportunity he could not help but try, and by the time half a dozen slaves had been taken, he could almost feel Spock's eyebrows rising, doubtful but not entirely disapproving, and McCoy's voice in his head, _You never do give up, do you Jim_.

But it was a question he wouldn't have answered even had Bones been there to ask it, because the doctor would already have known the answer: some combination of _no_ and _just hope you're not around when that day finally comes_.

Still, he allowed himself the luxury of sighing heavily and rubbing his face with his hands, a quick massage and perhaps admission to the fact that that day did seem to be necessarily on its way. At least he could still move this much. Then he put his hands down, heart beginning to thud with the excitement of a new possibility. He could move his hands, his arms, legs, face when his intentions were unrelated to his escape. But what if he could _trick_ the chip, somehow, by planning out moves with two intentions? He could make himself believe that for each step in his escape, his actions were for purely innocent reasons. Might it not permit them then? What to do when his implant reached its boundary within the compound was another problem, of course, but one he could face when he made it there.

He supposed, of course, that he wasn't the first captive to think of this. It was possible that the implant included a safeguard of some sort, or would recognize the attempt. But on the other hand, what he wanted to do—that is, actually convince himself that he were not escaping-would be so difficult that it was possible the implant hadn't been equipped for it.

Exactly how he would fool himself into believing in his own innocence was, of course, an interesting problem. On Melkot, when they'd needed to convince themselves that the O.K. Corral was an illusion, he had needed Spock's telepathy to create the certainty. On his own, he would have to make himself believe entirely in something that was not just doubtful but fully untrue. But he couldn't spend his time waiting around for Spock—after all, the best case scenario was that his officers had already made it off the planet, hopefully to spend a nice convalescence in sickbay where Spock, at the very least, belonged. He would have to find a way around it somehow.

And there was another possibility. He could play by their rules, but play by them better than they'd ever expect. A command could be interpreted in so many ways, there was no telling that his interpretation would be exactly what his captors wanted. Raise his arm? Would it matter if his hand were in a fist and the raising happened right into a guard's masked face? It was their game, yes, but Kirk was a fast learner.

When his number was finally called, then, he was deep in concentration. And as his legs moved him toward the door just a little faster than perhaps they had intended, he allowed himself just the slightest smirk of satisfaction.

* * *

"You _what_?" McCoy stopped crawling immediately and stared at the Vulcan.

Spock halted as well. "I may be able to—"

"I heard you the first time," McCoy said, resisting the urge to glower at the Vulcan's backside, which was currently all that was available for glowering at in the narrow confines of the service tunnel. "What I meant to ask is _how_?"

"It is yet a theory, Doctor," Spock said, and McCoy noted with a stab of worry that he seemed more breathless than usual. He felt his hand moving almost of its own accord to his medical scanner, but for once he was actually more interested in what the Vulcan had to say.

"And?" he demanded.

"When the captain was…incapacitated," this word came out as something distasteful, and with it came a rush of guilt and blame that he realized Spock had turned inward in an effort to keep from affixing it to him. McCoy shook his head and resolved to comment on that, eventually, seeing as he _was_ the doctor and therefore also responsible for Jim and Jim's body and anything that might be implanted in it. "I touched his mind, Doctor, in an attempt to… ease the pain. I felt the disorder and I think I was able to alleviate some of it. As you know, however, it cost me and perhaps because of that I did not see…" he trailed off, distracted for a moment. 'That' was probably his unconsciousness in the storage room, McCoy realized, though at the time he'd attributed it easily to stress and exhaustion. "If we can free him in time, Doctor, I believe that I should be able to alter his mind sufficiently to stave off the insanity for the time it takes to bring him to the _Enterprise_ and perform the necessary surgery."

"In your state, Spock?" He had to ask. The Vulcan stiffened.

"I am—"

"Just fine, I'm sure," McCoy snapped. How many times had they had this conversation? Spock remained tense but did not reply. "Spock, I'm tired of asking what all of your plans are going to do to you." He did pull out the scanner now, and waving it over the Vulcan confirmed his fears. He _had_ heard the crunch of bone as Spock had heaved himself into the shaft, and unless Spock took it easy he'd start bleeding internally or worse. "You shouldn't be sitting up at all, let alone crawling through vents and putting yourself in harm's way just for the _chance_ to get to Jim, when you don't even know if it's possible to save him! Spock, I know how you feel about Jim. I actually know. But I can't let you kill yourself over this when we both know our chances of getting him out of here are astronomical! I can't let you kill me over it either," he added.

For while his own life tended to lie fairly low on his list of concerns when his friends or patients were in danger, it was occurring to him, finally, that he might very likely be a casualty in Spock's plans. Plans which were, in all likelihood, hopeless to begin with. They'd no way to even find Jim, let alone free him from the guards or get him to the implant's limits where Spock's telepathy would even be necessary. They'd solved one tiny aspect of the problem, but not the most important—like fixing a man's splinter and expecting his Rigelian fever to be cured. Spock's was a fool's errand, and one that would most likely leave him and Spock dead and Jim killed or captured again. He had told Spock that they would do their best, but this was no rescue operation. It was a suicide mission likely to fail.

"Doctor, I do not intend for either of us to become sacrifices!" Spock insisted, though his voice was taut with pain and McCoy realized he barely even believed himself. The emotion thrumming through their link was ill-controlled and desperate.

"No, Spock," McCoy said sharply, for he had just realized an absurd truth that needed sharing. The Vulcan didn't turn his head, but he could see the edge of an eyebrow rising. But this was something he'd never have believed aboard the _Enterprise_…for he and Spock had traded roles, somehow; Spock had become the irrational one, following his emotions when realistically, logically, there was no hope, while McCoy in his desire to preserve life, not just Jim's but Spock's and his own as well, had taken Spock's place as the voice of reason. And while he'd once have applauded Spock for acting more human, embracing his emotions, here it was just wrong, wrong and made Spock dangerous. For Spock's single-minded devotion to Jim was going to get them killed, and maybe Jim too, unless he could make Spock see what he was doing.

"Spock, I want to know some odds," McCoy demanded. He had to speak a language that Spock understood, and experience at least told him that confronting Spock about his emotions was not usually the most profitable of activities.

Spock was perplexed. "Doctor, I hardly-"

"The odds, Spock," McCoy plowed on. "What are the odds we rescue Jim and all survive? And that includes finding him, fighting his guards, doing your Vulcan magic on the chip and then somehow getting out of this place with him and getting to the _Enterprise_ before anyone kills us."

"Doctor," Spock began again, but McCoy cut him off.

"Calculate them now, Spock. What are the odds?"

There was a moment of silence, and he could see Spock's back lower slightly as the Vulcan sighed. "Approximately… sixteen thousand to one," he said softly. "Though it is a rough estimate."

"All right then," McCoy said carefully, and wished he didn't have to be having this conversation on his hands and knees with Spock's rear end. "Now the odds that _we_ make it out alive, if we leave now and head straight to where the ship is probably looking for us."

Spock said nothing for a moment, then hung his head. "Doctor, if you are attempting to make a point it is received," he said coldly. "But I must point out that if we leave now the captain must surely be doomed."

McCoy's face hardened. "What are the odds, Spock," he said.

Apparently it was a battle that Spock was too tired to fight, for he answered, "Approximately five to one."

"Look," McCoy said, softening his tone both in victory and because he could feel Spock's despair through their link as plainly as his own. Then he chose his words carefully. "I can't tell you how much I don't want to leave Jim here. Especially not when it _seems_ like there might be a chance." Spock tensed again, and McCoy took a second to process the frustration and guilt and anger that surged momentarily his way. "But I don't want to get killed, Spock, because you insisted upon carrying out a rescue that is almost certainly going to fail! And I don't think Jim would want that either." He paused to take a steadying breath. "In fact, you know as well as I do that the last thing the captain would want would be that, for _you_ to die for the tiniest, slightest sixteen-thousand-to-one chance to save him. Not when we can make it out alive."

"Doctor."

"And that's not to mention our responsibility as Starfleet officers," McCoy went on doggedly. "Jim isn't the only being enslaved, here, and if we don't make it back to the ship Starfleet will never know. Is your having Jim worth the freedom of every single slave in this place? You're acting like a human, Spock, irrationally chasing after what you want with no regard for the consequences. You've gone beyond emotionality Spock, and this is downright irresponsible."

"Doctor, you have made your point." The words were practically growled, and for a fleeting moment McCoy wondered if he'd finally pushed Spock too far. Then, after a long silence in which McCoy wondered if maybe he'd simply broken him instead, Spock seemed to deflate. "However…you were correct to make it," the first officer said finally, and his tone was one of mourning. "You are under my command. Your safety…the discontinuation of this facility…should have been my chief concerns." But the rules were somehow different when Jim was concerned, McCoy knew, and he felt Spock's shame now, embarrassment that he had shirked his duties for a cause he'd barely realized was so personal. Still, he knew that the Vulcan's next words were perhaps the most difficult he'd spoken since they'd arrived on Catelus II two days before. "These service shafts should lead us near to an exit. We can attempt to reach the _Enterprise _from there."

McCoy only nodded. There was nothing to say. They started crawling once more, Spock in the lead.

"We will come back for him," McCoy offered after a little while.

"By then, Doctor, it may be too late."

"Why?"

"Because I do not believe that the captain will remain here for much longer," Spock said. "The guards were gone. It is only logical to assume that slaves were being moved or traded, and that the captain was being led to such activity when we encountered him."

McCoy could think of no response to this, but concentrated on following Spock, finding the energy through his own tiredness and pain. He wondered, as he'd known he would, if he had done the right thing in convincing Spock to leave Jim behind. Had he just ruined two lives, rather than one? What if Spock's odds had been wrong, and there really had been a chance to save Jim from a terrible fate? Well, he decided, he would never know, and he would just have to live with that no matter how much it might hurt tomorrow or years down the line. He only hoped that Spock might do the same.

When Spock's thoughts touched his mind again, it was hard to believe he hadn't found an answer. For, roiling with guilt and pain and anxiety as they were, there was one thread that stuck out among all the others, that captured the multitude of emotions with which Spock now grappled.

_Jim_.


	13. Chapter 13

It had taken six hours, dozens of interlocking equations that had stretched Uhura and Chekov's knowledge to its limits, and a countless number of adjustments and variables and computer errors that had nearly driven Uhura to slump down and knock her head on the console, but they had it. The buzz of voices hidden behind static that had been all she and Chekov could hear since they'd first circumvented the magnetic field had finally crystallized into clear subspace chatter, and that wasn't all. With some additional tweaking and help from Engineering they could have scanning and sensors, two-way communication, transporters, and navigation. If there was any chance Captain Kirk and the others were still alive, she and Chekov had opened the door to finding them.

A man's voice was now coming through crisp and clear in her earpiece. It was human by the sound of it, speaking standard Federation English in a strong but harried tone. "—jam in loading the cargo in the lower bay, the _Aurore _says it's still missing its pilot and the B group are getting antsy, they don't want—"

This cut out as the subspace radio picked up another channel, and gruff Klingon, of which Uhura recognized just a few words—_cargo, mines_, and something like _new blood_. The response was cut off as the subspace receiver picked up yet another channel. "—stunned and stripped," someone was saying. "It's got to be them." The voice that replied was stressed. "Can't get the full force out until after we get each sale to their ships. Don't want a bloody revolt on our hands."

Uhura looked up and met Chekov's eyes, dialing down the volume of her earpiece for a moment.

"I vonder who they are," Chekov said.

"I don't know," Uhura admitted. There had certainly been a lot of talk of cargo. "It sounds to me like they're trading something. A smuggling ring, maybe?"

"Maybe so," Chekov said, adjusting his own earpiece. "But I'm thinking it's time ve called Mr. Scott to the bridge."

Uhura began to nod, but the next transmission stole her attention. It was the first man, the harried man, and even with the volume turned down, he was speaking so urgently that his voice came through loud and clear. "—_Aurore_'s pilot is back. Went looking for more Starfleet to sell us right under our noses, but they left him stunned and tied up on the surface. Says they took his disruptor, communicator and tape ID. That's how the Vulcan and the other one got in."

"Find them," the female voice said. "And when you find them, make an example of them."

* * *

McCoy had never thought of himself as particularly claustrophobic, but if ever there was a situation to bring on that affliction, he was in it. The maintenance shafts they continued to crawl through—slowly, ever so slowly, because it was clear that Spock's body would not take much more of anything, even crawling, and McCoy's hip wound still twinged with pain each time he moved his left leg—were cramped and dusty, lit only by strips along the top that flickered in some areas and cast everything in a sickly glow in others. The walls were pale and smooth, though studded in intervals with hatches to different rooms and corridors as well as control panels for the compound's replicators and such. The effect was monotony, so that the shaft could have continued for light years and a man crawling through could be none the wiser. More oppressive than the atmosphere, however, was the weight of the emotion flowing from Spock to settle on McCoy's chest as though it was his own.

Spock knew they'd never have come down to the planet if not for his curiosity, and fantasies of missed opportunities swirled through his mind in a sickening dance of shoulda-coulda-woulda. If only he had not requested the mission, had not failed to adjust their orbit, had given Jim his spot in the badger hole or walked more quickly or thought to mind meld with Jim before the chip in his neck had nearly dragged him to insanity. He'd not only failed Jim but was abandoning him with every plodding step forward. He hated that it had been McCoy, human irrationality made flesh, who had forced him to see his own illogic in part because it stung his pride, but more so because he knew McCoy was right. Even worse, he knew Jim would think so. For while risking himself for the captain was something that Spock could, and always would, do without hesitation, he knew better than to betray Jim's command. He knew that neglecting his responsibilities as a commander, to McCoy and to the crew and to all of the beings trapped in the compound, was something that Jim could never forgive. McCoy wanted to say something, but there were no words. There never had been.

As he crawled along behind Spock, though, fighting tears that weren't his, he thought that for the first time he understood why Vulcans controlled their emotions. It wasn't all about pride or superiority, or anything else. Spock's were simply tearing him apart. Whatever Vulcan control he maintained, McCoy knew, was being funneled into forcing his broken body to move. Spock was going to get McCoy back to the _Enterprise_ if it killed him, because that was what Jim would want. The determination made McCoy want to shake him, to remind him that his own life was worth fighting for, but he knew there's be no point in it. Spock was too far gone.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" McCoy asked instead, eying the Vulcan for a little reassurance, at the very least, that Spock was still marginally functional despite the torrent of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. The Vulcan had never claimed to know exactly where they were going, he recalled, but Spock's memory of the base had allowed him to predict the most likely route to the surface. Without any other options, McCoy had trusted him at his word.

Spock paused in front of a hatch, labeled unhelpfully (as far as McCoy was concerned) CORRIDOR 36. The Vulcan's back and arms were trembling visibly with effort or exhaustion and McCoy resisted the urge to find the medical scanner in his bag and check Spock's vitals again. He'd little doubt of what he would find and it seemed they were reaching a point where all he could hope to do for the man was to get him back to the ship before it really was too late.

"No," Spock said wearily, his eyes closing, and McCoy waited for an explanation in Spock's longest-suffering tone that his calculation of the most probable route contained a margin for error, which rendered complete certainty impossible. It never came.

McCoy sighed, wondering if perhaps he'd misjudged the Vulcan's certainty or ability in the first place. "Don't tell me we're lost," he said.

Spock said nothing.

McCoy squinted up the tunnel, trying to read the outline of Spock's face, but aside from the clenched jaw there was nothing to see. "Look, Spock, if you need to take a break just say the word. I know you're tired...and I know this is hard on you."

Another wave of emotion crashed through their link, full of helpless frustration, and McCoy blinked back tears. Well, he thought, if there was ever an inadequate description for utter, soul-numbing despair, he supposed he'd found it. Still, the feeling was the only indication Spock had even heard him, for Spock remained motionless in the shaft ahead of him, eyes closed as though he were gathering his strength.

Then Spock took a breath. "This continues to be the route most likely to bring us to the surface," he said, but the end of _surface_ trailed into a cough, which seemed to surprise him. Spock stifled the cough with a hand, then clutched at his ribs. The whole display sent a jolt of concern through McCoy, and he watched for a few moments as Spock remained still, pain showing clearly on his face. An echo of _I am a Vulcan_ played faintly in McCoy's mind.

"That doesn't sound good," McCoy said, reaching for his medkit.

"No," Spock agreed softly, and McCoy's eyes widened as much in surprise as Spock's agreement as his willingness to admit weakness. But then, what reason was there to insist on being fine when Jim would rot where they had left him no matter what they did from here? McCoy shook his head, unsure of whether or not the thought was his own. They had to get out of here and they had to get out soon.

He had just produced the last painkiller from the medkit when the communicator chirped. He jumped and nearly dropped the hypo.

He'd been carrying the useless communicator on his belt since their fateful jump into the shuttle runway, and he'd nearly forgotten all about it. But what could anyone want with it now? If there was the slimmest chance it was a friend... Unsure of what to do, he lowed the hypo and looked questioningly at Spock.

"Open it, Doctor," Spock said urgently, and for the first time since they'd turned away from Jim there was life in the Vulcan's voice. "At the very least we might be able to glean valuable information about what is happening in the compound." And to Jim, McCoy knew.

Well, he supposed, getting yelled at a bit more by some slave trader probably couldn't hurt anything, though he doubted the gruff voice they'd heard each time on the other end would provide much more information than they already knew. He pulled the communicator off his hip and flipped it open.

The voice that sounded out tinnily in the close confines of the shaft made him want to cry with joy. "_Enterprise_ to landing party," Scott was saying. "_Enterprise_ to landing party."

"McCoy here," he answered, and despite it all he felt a grin begin to split his face. He reached out to grip Spock's good ankle just to affirm they were both here and not dreaming, because somehow all he had been hoping for since they'd first opened the communicator was coming true and not a damn moment too soon. As if someone out there had heard his wishes and answered them in the form of an equally relieved Scottish burr.

"Is everyone all right?"

That, of course, was an entirely different beast, and McCoy felt some of his happiness drain away. "I'm with Spock here and he's in need of medical attention. The captain," and he paused, and swallowed, for, somehow, leaving Jim behind now felt more final and more hopeless than it ever had when he'd been turning Spock's logic against him. He reminded himself it was what they had to do, for Spock's sake and everyone else's, and continued, "They got him."

McCoy swore he could hear the muffled disappointment voiced behind Scott, and for a moment he closed his eyes and tried to believe it wasn't his fault.

"Well," Scott said after a beat had gone by, "we're glad to have found you two. We've been standing by to beam you up and we think we can do it."

"You think?" McCoy echoed.

Scott's voice was contrite on the other end, as though he felt personally responsible for the vagaries of the transporter. "Transporting's a bit more complicated than communicating, Doctor," he said. "Wouldn't want you to end up split or stuck halfway in the magnetic field and half out of it. It'll take a bit of adjustment and some time, and even then I can't guarantee there won't be any risk. D'ye still want us to try it?"

McCoy looked at Spock, dirty and bruised and sagging, and at the shaft walls and lights and the hatch to Corridor 36, and nearly started to laugh. "What the hell do you think?" he said. As if they'd trade a chance to get beamed straight out of hell, no more running or crawling or fighting or wondering if Spock was finally going to lose his mind or collapse for good, for a little transporter risk. It was like asking a man if he wanted his Rigellian fever cured when the antidote might give him a runny nose. "Yes, Scott. You get us out of the godforsaken hole in however many pieces you need to and I swear I'll never say a word against those damned transporters of yours again."

He thought he detected the hint of a chuckle in Scott's, "Aye, Doctor."

Twisting in the confines of the shaft, Spock reached backward for the communicator, and McCoy handed it to him, then sank back down onto his knees. "Mr. Scott," Spock said.

"Aye," the engineer answered.

"How did you find us?" Spock asked. McCoy's brow furrowed.

"We're using the ship's artificial gravity to make a channel through the magnetic field," Scott reported. "We heard you had a communicator and sensors picked up one transmitting at the _Enterprise_'s frequencies. We took the gamble it was you and it's paid off, as you can see."

"Indeed." Spock took a shallow breath. "How long will it take to prepare the transporters?"

There was a pause while a muffled exchange occurred on the other side. "Another thirty seconds," Scott reported after a moment. "I'm in the transporter room now and we're locked onto the communicator, so just stay together and hold onto it, and you'll be back before you know it." There were a few seconds of silence, then Scott's voice came through with what sounded like a sigh. "We thought you were dead, Mr. Spock. The three of you. Believe it or not whoever's down there went to a mighty effort to make it look that way. Burned bodies and all."

"Well," McCoy breathed. It had been far too close, in more ways than one.

Spock, however, did not seem affected. "Interesting," he said. The Vulcan sounded out of breath and not particularly interested, and a moment later he handed the communicator back to McCoy. There was a strange emotion behind his actions, an ambivalence of sorts, no doubt because they were leaving Jim. Even with the power of the _Enterprise_ behind them, McCoy knew, their chances of finding him before the slavers moved him or worse had to be slim. These people were professionals, after all, and it wouldn't be hard for them to make the connection to Jim the moment Starfleet security teams descended on the compound. And even if they found him in time...there was no telling Spock's mind tricks would work, or even that Spock would have the strength to keep the madness at bay long enough for McCoy to operate. Still, as Spock bent forward to cough, McCoy closed his eyes and thanked his lucky stars for Scott's rescue. He might have lost Jim today but it didn't mean he had to lose Spock as well.

"Almost ready, now," Scott said. "Now, I'll need you to stay very still now, counting down from ten...nine..."

McCoy froze, barely daring to breathe, and watched the line of Spock's back tense in front of him. "...five...four..." This was it, he thought. This was the end. "...three...two..."

And at "one" Spock surged forward with unexpected energy, opened the hatch to Corridor 36 and flung himself through it. McCoy reached out to stop him but it was already too late. The whine of the transporter enveloped him and before he knew it, he was materializing on the transporter platform, alone.

* * *

Yep, I'm back again after another two years. The good news is, I have everything planned out and should be able to wrap up this story within a few chapters (I also have plenty of time to write these days). As always, I hope you're enjoying the story. :)


	14. Chapter 14

"What in the blazes-"

The man who'd materialized on the transporter platform hardly seemed recognizable as Dr. McCoy, yet Dr. McCoy it was.

The good doctor appeared on his hands and knees with one arm outstretched, dirty and scruffy and bruised as a Georgia peach. Two days worth of stubble and dirt covered his cheeks and his clothing-including a black shirt Scott had never seen before-was covered in a fine layer of dust. In all it looks like the man'd just escaped from a Klingon penal moon and Scott found himself beckoning at the medical team standing by for Spock, who for some reason was not there, before another thought had even crossed his mind.

McCoy pushed himself up first with a surprising energy, though, only to stand unsteadily and fix Scott with a wild-eyed stare. "That pointy-eared green-blooded fool of a Vulcan!" The doctor's face was twisted in fury, and he tried to wave Nurse Chapel and her team of nurses away as he continued his diatribe. (They surrounded him anyway.) "What does he think is going to happen now? What the devil could he have been thinking?"

"Dr. McCoy," Scott greeted him when the doctor paused for breath. Then he blinked, and looked again at the transporter pad where Spock had failed to appear before asking, "Doctor, what did Mr. Spock do?"

Scott'd been prepared for the possibility that something would go wrong in the transportation process—that the signal might be weak, that they might have to compensate for additional magnetic waves on the fly, or that their own transporters might have a trouble integrating the scrambled matter. What he hadn't expected was for the two life form readings in the communicator's range to blip to one just as the beaming process started, or for McCoy to turn up whole and enraged but entirely alone.

"He..." McCoy winced at something, swatted half-heartedly at a nurse trying to take a reading near his face, and shook his head. His shoulders seemed to slump then, as though the fire'd gone right out of him. "He must've gone after Jim. I don't know why. I'm sure he thinks he has some logical reason but doesn't he know the first thing we'll do is send out search parties, security teams, whatever we need to? Doesn't he...oh..." The doctor had tried to take a step but faltered with a grimace. Nurse Chapel was there to catch him under the arm.

"Come on, Doctor," she said, in a voice that brooked no argument. Not, Scott supposed, that that had ever been like to dissuade McCoy.

Still, the doctor let her lead him toward the turbolift, a junior nurse following him with her nose buried in a medical tricorder. "You must've figured out what they do down there," he said, halting the procession as he passed by. His voice was almost pleading. "We have to find them. Spock is..." McCoy looked down and seemed to notice an unused hypo he still held in one hand, then met Scott's eyes again. "I don't think either of them has much time."

Scott nodded his affirmation. "I'll meet you in Sickbay," he said. "We will save them, Doctor. It'll take some doing, but we will save them."

McCoy nodded his own response. "If there's anything I can do," he offered.

"Not now, Doctor," Scott said. All the work now was for Engineering and Communications, seeing as they needed to calibrate the sensors well enough to get a map of the compound, then find the captain and Mr. Spock within it. Only then could they think of transporting them up, or sending in teams to subdue the slaving ring.

"Right," McCoy said, sounding wearier than Scott'd ever heard him. "But you let me know, Scotty. Promise you'll let me know."

"I will," Scott promised, then sighed. There was work to be done.

* * *

Spock picked himself up slowly from the floor of the corridor. The pain was overbearing, threatening the last threads of his control, but with a mighty effort he was able to push it back one more time. As he dragged himself to his knees, then began to straighten, he reminded himself that he had only done what was necessary. Logical. Jim did not have the time it would take for the _Enterprise_ to prepare a rescue mission, and so it must fall to him. Now that he knew the ship was scanning the subspace channels, he only needed to bring Kirk within the proximity of an adapted communicator and order Scott to beam them up. Assuming he was correct in expecting that the slaves, once sold, would be quickly moved off world, he was Jim's only chance.

Unfortunately, he discovered as he finally gained his feet, only to waver and catch himself on the nearest wall, suppressing yet another crushing wave of pain, the situation appeared to be a classic case of the human expression "easier said than done." Another coughing fit took him by surprise and as he waited it out, hugging the wall beside him, he had to admit that his own time might be limited as well. All the more reason to proceed quickly.

Though he had been fortunate the find the corridor empty, he knew the activity would only increase as he made his way back through the base. Returning through the maintenance shaft would certainly ensure that he was not seen, but such travel was slow and he doubted he-or Jim-had the time. In any case he was not sure he could climb back into the shaft without McCoy's help. He dampened a new surge of frustration at his current, absurd physical weakness, but his side and leg and head ached on. Such emotionality would get him nowhere.

After a few moments he decided to make his way down the corridor in search of a turbolift. He would have to chance being seen. Their captor's coat, which still covered his uniform tunic, would at least ensure that he was not recognized immediately. If chance operated in his favor, he might be taken for a Romulan slaver. If not, it should not be too difficult to stun or otherwise incapacitate an unsuspecting fellow passenger.

His first steps toward the end of the hallway, however, nearly incapacitated him. Pain crackled across his chest and shot from his ankle to his knee each time his foot touched the floor. When he halted, bending over slightly in an attempt to relieve the spinning that the hallway seemed to be doing, another coughing fit seized him. Each spasm sending shards through his chest and for a few moments he lost track of everything, himself and his mission and all thoughts but _Jim_ subsumed by the agony he could no longer pretend to deny. When he recovered, he was balancing precariously on his left leg and hugging the wall for support. He forced himself to straighten and continue on. Pain was a thing of the mind, and the mind could be controlled.

Even using the wall as a crutch, however, he stumbled over nothing more frequently than he liked and had to wait, kneeling on the cold hard floor, for his control to return. Moving in this manner, it took him nearly eighteen minutes to reach the turbolift at the end of the corridor, and he felt as though he would have expended less effort climbing Mount Seleya. Still, he had reached the turbolift, and readied himself to meet whoever might be within. In his hand, his phaser shook, but there was nothing to be done about it.

This far from the center of the compound, however, the box was empty. He stumbled into it and leaned against the wall, deciding his next course of action. If his suppositions were correct, Jim was likely still in auction, or awaiting transport from the planet. Therefore it was logical to attempt to meet him wherever that transfer would probably occur. The shuttle runway through which he and Dr. McCoy had entered the compound had been relatively narrow, and therefore not likely attached to the compound's main hangar.

"Computer," he said, but the use of his voice made him cough, more, and he stifled each paroxysm with his sleeve. When it was finally over, he could taste copper, and saw that the fabric of the sleeve was misted in green blood. He closed his eyes. It did not matter, not now. "Computer," he tried again. "Bring me to the room or corridor adjacent to the main hangar." Presumably, said corridor would be less crowded than the hangar itself. From there, he could also hope to more surreptitiously obtain a communicator from some member of the compound personnel.

The turbolift jerked into motion, and Spock sagged back against the corner. For a few moments, he wished illogically-for it was certainly better that McCoy be safe, and able to alert the _Enterprise_ to the compound's existence-that the doctor was still with him. While McCoy's presence had been gruff and somewhat grating, as always, Spock was also aware that without his support, both physical and emotional, he would not have gotten this far. He only hoped that he would be able to complete his mission without him.

Spock straightened as the motion of the turbolift began to slow. The location indicator showed that he was approaching his destination, apparently a room labeled Holding. Concealing his phaser in his jacket, he waited, adrenaline beginning to thrum through him. There was nothing to distinguish him immediately from a Romulan slaver, he reminded himself, unless anyone looked too closely and saw his injuries or the Starfleet cut of his pants and boots.

The doors slid open. The room was far larger than he'd expected, low of ceiling but nearly as wide as he might have expected the hangar itself to be. Across the expanse beings busted about their business, black-clad guards leading lines or slaves to and fro, slavers dressed in civilian clothes walking between groups, members of all three groups entering and leaving through doors all along the walls. Each time a door slid open, he could see the dull rounded gleam of ships' hulls beyond.

He stepped out, careful to disguise his limp as best he could. His entrance had apparently gone unnoticed in the clamor, and few beings seemed even to glance at him, though the guards' black masks made it difficult to tell.

He had to find Jim.

It was easy enough to identify slaves by their pale green garb, but the outfits in combination with the lack of hair made it difficult to identify one slave among all the rest. Spock wandered forward, attempting to at least appear to have a purpose so as not to arouse too much suspicion, scanning each face as he went by.

He was unsure of exactly what tipped him off to the identity of the figure halfway across the room, but there was something in the slight swagger, the tightness of the arms and shoulders, the way the man held his chin up in defiance even as a guard shoved him forward, which told Spock that he was not too late. He had found Jim.

And Jim's line was being led toward a door in the far wall, and out to a hangar beyond.

Spurred on by the urgency, forgetting for the moment even the pain in his leg and his side, Spock limped hurriedly toward the line of slaves in pale green, his eyes locked on the one man he had come so far to find. He was within earshot, ten meters, perhaps, and eying a communicator on the belt of a woman standing not far from his captain when hands in black gloves grabbed him roughly from behind.

"It's him!" a deep voice called. "We've got him. It's the damned Starfleet Vulcan!"

He had long enough to see Jim turn around and meet his eyes, before a fist slammed into his side, he fell to his knees, and the world grayed out in a haze of agony until something hard connected with his head and everything went dark.


	15. Chapter 15

The commotion in the middle of the room grabbed everyone's attention, even the guards'. Kirk took the opportunity to turn and glance back, only to find himself moored to the floor when his eyes met Spock's. In the interminable seconds that followed he could only gape, staring at the man he'd hoped, wished, willed to leave him behind and find safety of his own. He didn't want Spock here. He had done everything in his power, withstood hours of excruciating torture, to make sure Spock didn't end up here. And where was Bones?

The moment came to an abrupt end as second guard rounded Spock and drove a gloved fist into the Vulcan's ribs. Spock folded, hitting the floor and curling around himself. As though a spell had been broken, the rest of the guards sprung into action. All around Kirk could hear yelled orders and see lines of slaves begin to march. Directly behind him, one guard commanded, "Move!" and another shoved him forward. But Kirk's gaze was still fixed on Spock when a guard's boot connected with Spock's head, and when the man pulled back to do it again, Kirk _moved_.

He ran without any thought of thwarting the guard's command or of escape, or with any plan at all—he simply needed to get to Spock before they killed him. Kirk dodged guards and slavers and bowled through frozen lines of slaves, his focus narrowed down to one thing and one thing only. Get to Spock. Thirty meters, twenty, ten, five, the breath ragged in his chest... Without slowing he slammed into the nearest guard, knocking them both to the floor. Together they smacked into the tile beside Spock but Kirk hardly registered the impact. He rolled quickly toward Spock, slamming an elbow into the guard's face in his efforts, then righted himself and gathered his friend's limp form in his arms.

In the moments that followed he knelt on the floor with the blood pounding in his ears, grasping Spock's chest to him as if he could somehow protect his friend with his will and body alone. But it had not taken the guards long to react and the masked figures surrounded them now, a ring of disruptors trained on him and Spock. Others spoke into communicators of an escape attempt and an attack on a guard, and he could hear one calling for reinforcements and another for instruction. He tensed around Spock, staring up at them, but he could think of nothing to do and nowhere to go. He was as trapped as he'd been before and just as helpless to save his friend.

The bitterness of the realization made him sag. Of course he'd never had a chance. What a good idea it had been, to interpret commands to his own ends, forcing his mind to forget escape as a motive—only in running to Spock he'd done just that, and what had it gotten them? Spock looked near death and now he was in the slavers' power as surely as Kirk was. Kirk clenched his teeth, wanting to do something, anything, but he was frozen again. Helpless, again. Except in reality he had been helpless since they'd shoved the implant in his neck and he'd only managed to convince himself that he wasn't.

Spock was beginning to stir feebly in his arms. Glaring up at the guards, Kirk shifted his grip to pull even more of Spock's battered body to him.

"Well what are you waiting for?" the words snapped out, hardly what he'd intended to say, but he was angry, damn it, and it was long since past the point for any sort of diplomacy. "You've got us. You've got us and we're not going anywhere so why don't you go ahead do it?" He nodded violently toward the barrel of the disruptor nearest him, but when the guards remained still he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm. Inviting more violence would accomplish nothing, as tempting as it might be. He was still in command and Spock needed him. The Vulcan's lean body was starting to twitch and when he gave a little moan, Kirk tried again. "Please," he implored. "My friend needs help. He had nothing to do with my escape, I swear it."

His answer came unexpectedly from several meters away, from an Orion woman in business attire striding toward them. "He may not have helped you this time but he and his friend killed two of our guards," she said. She was flanked by two guards and sounded, of all things, mildly amused. "Stunned the pilot of one of our largest transport vessels and left him trussed up on the surface as _ghembapt_ fodder. Impersonated facility personnel. Stole a disruptor and nearly stole you. No, slave, your _friend _has caused us quite a bit of trouble. We've been looking for him for some time now."

The circle of guards parted to let her in as she spoke, and she stood before Kirk for a few seconds before nudging Spock's leg with her foot. Spock grunted, stiffening in Kirk's grasp. "Hardly looks the type," she commented to the guard beside her, then shrugged. "No matter. He'll serve."

Kirk felt his eyes widen. "He'll serve for what?"

"An example." The Orion woman offered a nasty grin, her teeth gleaming in her green face. "Take them both to a stone cell," she ordered the guards, "and prepare the arena for a demonstration."

"What's going to—" Kirk began, but was cut off as guards bent down to rip Spock from his grasp, then hauled the both of them to their feet. Spock seemed to be trying to find purchase on the floor with his boots but his head lolled, and the soft noises that escaped his throat told Kirk that he wasn't all there, not yet. Kirk fought the guards to reach him but this time, when one commanded, "stand still," his body obeyed. He settled for glaring daggers at the Orion and wishing for all the galaxy there was more he could do. "What's going to happen to us?" he said.

"You haven't figured it out?" the Orion asked, shaking her head. "You're going to be executed, of course, the both of you. No slave has ever escaped from this compound and we don't look kindly on those who try, or those who help them. You've also both assaulted our guards, which I assure you makes them very unhappy." She addressed the guards once more. "Now go. I'd like the show to start within the hour. You know what to do."

The guards nodded their affirmations. One pair ordered Kirk to walk and another lifted Spock between them. The Vulcan's feet dragged on the floor and Spock gave another soft moan. Kirk reached out for him instinctively, but the guard on his right swatted his hand down with a disruptor barrel. "None of that," the guard said.

They were led across the room, Kirk marching and Spock suspended between his captors. Heads turned as they passed by. Kirk thought he saw the Klingon woman he'd been processed with, but they strode by too quickly for him to tell whether her glare had softened. Not that it mattered. Spock was not yet fully conscious, but Kirk could see him beginning to struggle weakly against his guards' grip. Kirk's guards seemed content enough to let him march between them, their hands on his arms. That they trusted his implant again made him wonder how rare his purity of motivation had been if they didn't expect it again, not now that Spock was being dragged along in front of him. But then, he supposed, that hardly mattered much either. Whatever Spock's plan had been, it had failed, and Kirk's sole idea had already played out...only to pitch them both from the frying pan and right into the fire. If there was a way out now, he didn't see it.

The hall outside of the room they'd been seized in was less crowded and the guards herded them quickly into a turbolift. Kirk studied his first officer as the floor indicators whizzed sideways and up across the lighted panels. Spock's face was pale and gaunt and bruised. A trail of green blood had dried along his cheek from a gash below his left eye. Though much of his body was covered by that mysterious coat, he seemed to be curling into himself, the strain of remaining upright pulling at his narrow features. All in all he looked worse than Kirk had ever seen him, and Kirk clenched his fists. The knowledge that it was his fault, that as Spock's commanding officer and friend he should have found some way out of the situation before any of this had come to pass, made the breath catch in his chest. A planet with no sensors or communication? He had been a fool to approve the mission in the first place. They should never have come here at all.

He'd been gazing at Spock for several seconds when the Vulcan blinked a few times, grimaced, then looked up and focused on Kirk. When their eyes met Spock's were dark with emotion.

"I'm sorry," Kirk said.

Spock shook his head infinitesimally. "No," he whispered, then coughed. His body still sagged between his guards and the sound, painful and wet, was as ugly as the sight. Kirk longed to reach out to him again but his arms wouldn't move. "No, Jim," Spock tried again when the coughing fit had passed. His eyes closed with the effort. "It is I who should...who should apologize."

Kirk blinked back tears that had no business coming to the fore now and shook his head. "You're wrong, Spock," he said. "My command. I should have..."

But he was cut off by the opening of the turbolift doors. His guards urged him forward but from the corner of his eye he could see Spocks' pair hefting him once again between them. This time Spock's cry was strangled and if there had been any way to get back to him, Kirk would have taken it. But the guards' instructions had been specific and he could only march on.

They were shoved roughly into a cell, both hitting the floor hard. As the door slid shut behind them Kirk realized with a jolt of apprehension that he knew it all too well, for aside from a lack of furniture this room was identical to the one he had been held and tortured in just...a day before? It seemed an eternity, and yet he could still see the dark figure bending toward him, feel the raw agony, hear the sound of his own screams...but now was not the time. He forced himself to shake off the memories and scrambled on his hands and knees to Spock. The Vulcan was trying to push himself up but his whole body was trembling, his face a mask of concentration. Without thinking Kirk sat, took Spock by the arms and pulled him into his lap.

"Jim," Spock protested, grimacing at the movement.

"Sorry," Kirk said.

Spock closed his eyes.

Suddenly, though, Kirk had only one question in mind. "What were you _thinking, _Spock?" he demanded, glaring down at his first officer. It was as if all of the emotions he'd felt since his capture, anger and frustration and fear and guilt, were surfacing at once and he simply couldn't stop them. "You were supposed to get out of here, to get Bones out of here, not follow me into this hole, Spock. I didn't want you to die here. And where is McCoy?"

Somehow, Spock seemed less surprised by his outburst than he had been. Not even an eyebrow went up. "Dr. McCoy is safe," he answered weakly, struggling to sit up further on his own. Kirk helped to prop him against the nearest wall, but didn't release his grip on Spock's arms. "He has returned to the ship," Spock added.

"He...what?" Kirk asked, too baffled by the statement to maintain much of his anger or anything else. "He left without you? I don't understand."

Spock cleared his throat. "Scott was able to lock onto our communicator. The doctor returned to the ship via transporter. I surmised correctly that there would not be time to prepare the equipment to send rescue parties before you were moved off-world, and so I...elected to remain. I thought I could locate you and signal the _Enterprise_."

Kirk shook his head, not sure whether he wanted to shake the Vulcan or hug him. He settled for asking, "You're saying you could have escaped?"

"I could have," Spock admitted, shifting uncomfortably against the stone wall. "But you had little time and were not aware that a calibrated communicator was all that would be necessary for escape. I presumed that the implant in your brain stem would keep you from obtaining one in any case." He paused to cough again, and Kirk's eyes narrowed in concern. After what felt like another eternity Spock went on, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Given that Dr. McCoy is capable of advising Starfleet of the existence of this facility without me, it was only logical that I remain behind."

"Logical." Kirk felt lost for words, and far less than deserving such loyalty, of the sacrifice Spock had been willing to make. No. The sacrifice he had _made_. A new wave of affection for his friend welled up in him and he tightened his grasp, ever so slightly, on Spock's biceps. Of course it was logical.

"I am also the only one who can free your mind from the influence of the implant," Spock went on doggedly. "If you allow me..." He reached for Kirk's face, wincing and gasping slightly at the movement. Kirk caught his hand.

"No, Spock," he said kindly. "Save that strength."

"Please," Spock said as Kirk shook his head _no_. "Jim. The ship will be searching. I heard our sentence, but if there is any chance at all, for you..." Spock closed his eyes for a brief moment, then swallowed. His voice came out low and hoarse. "Jim, I am dying. If we wait any longer I may not have the strength at all."

Kirk took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If there was any chance... He remembered the agony the implant had caused, the desperation and disorder. "Will it hurt you?"

Spock shook his head, and something like a smile seemed almost to tug at the corners of his mouth. "I believe, Jim, that that is what humans might call a moot point." When Kirk frowned, he added softly, "It will drain me. But there will be no additional pain."

For a few seconds they just looked at each other.

"Very well," Kirk decided. Hesitantly, he let go of Spock's hand and let Spock press fingers to his cheek and temple. What followed was the unimaginable closeness of the meld, in which time seemed to stop and all there was was Spock, filling him with the steady presence and devotion and friendship he had always been able to provide. When it was over, Spock's arm fell and he slumped bonelessly into Kirk. Kirk caught him in an embrace.

Spock's eyelids fluttered, "It is done," he murmured.

"Thank you," Kirk said.

"It has been an honor, Jim," Spock said into his shoulder.

"It has," Kirk agreed.

Kirk tightened his arms around his first officer, letting him rest where he had fallen. As though somehow the physical contact could make things better, could give Spock strength or protect him from the fate that awaited them. How long did they have now? For once he was glad not to have Spock's time sense. Doing nothing had been intolerable the last time he had waited in a cell like this, and yet now it was all he had left.

"I'm sorry, Spock," he said again to the limp form in his arms. This time Spock didn't answer.

They sat that way until the cell door slid open with a hiss.


	16. Chapter 16

"An execution." McCoy repeated the words slowly, hardly able to believe them. "In less than an hour."

"Aye," Scott said. The man had come down from the bridge to give McCoy the news in person, and stood beside McCoy's biobed with his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed slightly. "Lieutenant Uhura heard it herself."

McCoy struggled to sit up, no small feat given the bulky tissue regenerator he was strapped into. He'd known something was wrong since the emotions coming through his connection to Spock had changed a few minutes earlier, but he'd had trouble sorting out the discordant thoughts. Spock had become glad and devastated at the same time, as though he'd found Jim and lost him all at once. Unfortunately, he supposed, Scotty's news explained that well enough, and he shoved the alien feelings to the back of his mind yet again. "Well you've got to do something!" he told Scott.

The engineer nodded. "We've got sensor coverage enough to to be fairly sure we wouldn't be beaming any of our people into the walls, at least so long as we send them to the upper levels. We could beam a our teams down and start a search, but the place is overrun with nasties. As it is we wouldn't know where to start looking. We could very well be beaming our own men and women down into a slaughter."

McCoy opened his mouth to say that wasn't good enough, but Scott went on before he got a chance.

"Still, I don't see we have any choice. We'll beam down a full security contingent as soon as the transporters are ready."

"Wait," McCoy said. Scott looked at him, surprised. "You can't do that," McCoy said, and when Scott's surprise softened to bafflement he sighed. "Look, Scotty, I want Jim and Spock back too. But you can't...you can't risk so many people for this. Jim would never condone that. And what if you don't get there in time? What if they kill them as soon as our people materialize? How many lives do you think this operation is worth?" With the words came a terrible sense of deja vu. It hadn't been long since he'd had the same conversation with Spock in the maintenance shaft, only it had been Spock's and his and the slaves' lives on the line instead. He was weary of always having to be the one to remind his fellow officers of the human thing to do—the human thing, not the military thing or the Vulcan thing or the damnably loyal thing—even when he was sure he wanted his friends back more than anyone did. It was work being the ship's conscience. It hurt.

Scott was looking down at him now, his eyes narrowed. It was a look that reminded McCoy that no matter how cautious Scotty might be to when it came repairing his engines, he was also a man who believed that the best diplomat was a fully activated phaser bank. Jim would listen to the moral argument, and Spock would look for the logic in his statement, but Scott was a different sort of commander altogether. "Where I come from, Doctor," Scott said, "we don't leave our people behind. We're as ready as can be. So unless you can offer me an alternative, I'll be needed in the transporter room." He started to turn away.

"You can't—" McCoy tried again. There had to be some other way, some way that wouldn't involve the chaos and death a full assault on the facility would bring. When Scott only shook his head and kept going, McCoy resisted the urge to rip off the regenerator and follow him.

Of course it was all good and fine for Scott to give the order, but he wouldn't be here when the bodies started coming in, to see the destruction that fighting with disruptors in close quarters, when neither party had a quick retreat, could cause. And couldn't Scott see this wasn't just his usual cantankerousness, that this sort of counsel wasn't easy for him? For all he sometimes felt like the third nacelle to his friends' mythic relationship, the truth was he didn't have anyone else. Jim and Spock were his dearest friends, the two people closest to him in the galaxy, sad as the admission was. And what if the slavers killed them anyway? Surely, the connection between the Starfleet officers and the Starfleet invaders could not be that hard to make.

He wished again that Spock had just come with him, for he was sure that in this situation the Vulcan would have found some solution, some logical answer he just wasn't seeing, that might save both Jim and the carnage of a firefight. But his connection with Spock seemed to be only one way, unless... he had communicated with Spock before, hadn't he? If he could reach him now, surely, Spock with his time sense and location sense and whatever else sense would know, at the very least, where he was.

McCoy's eyes widened. "Scotty!" he yelled at the Sickbay door. "Scotty, get back here!"

A few minutes later, McCoy couldn't help but wonder if maybe he'd lost his mind after all. Scott was by his biobed still, but he'd been joined by Chekov and Sulu, wielding tricorders and ready to record any information he could provide, Nurse Chapel, and Dr. M'Benga, who had placed a hand on McCoy's shoulder and was smiling down at him kindly.

"You'll have to concentrate," M'Benga advised him.

McCoy rolled his eyes to hide the apprehension he was sure would show otherwise. He'd never really trusted Vulcan mind mojo, and his experience with Spock's counterpart about the _ISS Enterprise_ had only cemented his suspicion. Still, he reminded himself, it was his duty to his friends and fellow officers, and Jim and Spock were well worth whatever discomfort the attempt might bring. "I kind of figured that," he said lamely.

"An accidental continuation of a mind meld is rare, and it's rarer still that both parties aren't aware of them," M'Benga said, thankfully oblivious to his nervousness. "Are you sure Spock had no knowledge of your connection?"

McCoy paused for a moment, concerned, for the possibility that Spock had known and not said a thing had not occurred to him. But no, Spock's surprise at his occasional perception had seemed—and felt—real enough. Not to mention that surely, if the Vulcan had known, he would have ended the connection long before anything as embarrassing as this absurd séance could come out of it. "He couldn't have known." In any case, the circumstances it had arisen from had hardly been normal.

"Well, it shouldn't matter much anyway," M'Benga decided. "Now, in order to contact him, that is to reverse the direction of the flow, you'll first have to open you mind to him. Whatever you've been doing to suppress his thoughts and feelings, you'll need to stop. Only when the channel is completely open can you begin to broadcast your own thoughts, and communicate. If Spock knows where he is, he may be able to tell you, but you must be careful. It's hard enough for full Vulcans to transmit such specific information through a mind meld, and what you get could be slightly wrong, or warped."

Around him, Scott's eyes narrowed at this, Chekov and Sulu traded glances, and Christine bit her lip nervously. McCoy took another deep breath, forcing himself to calm. So it could go wrong. Good to know. Still, if he could do this, or at least do it well enough, he could save them both and half the security forces as well. McCoy nodded slightly to M'Benga to show he understood, breathed in and out again, and closed his eyes.

Spock's emotions were there, under the surface, as they'd been since McCoy had left the planet. Willing himself to forget his own apprehension, McCoy let the alien feelings wash over him. He had Spock's thoughts, his feelings. Slowly, ever so slowly, he could feel the remaining barriers between them crumble and he knew Spock's mind as well as if it were his own. The Vulcan emotions, stronger than any human's, crashed into him and for what seemed an eternity he let himself be buffeted by them, feeling Spock, knowing Spock. He was with Jim, his gladness at the reunion crushed unrelentingly, impossibly, beneath the irreparable weight of his guilt. He had tried so hard and failed to save his friend, his captain, his t'hy'la, a word McCoy had never before quite comprehended but which now filled him with such intense joy and sadness and longing and regret he understood why Spock had been willing to give up everything, to kill and die and sacrifice all he had for the man. But he knew it had been for nothing and he was dying after all, his life bleeding out inside him and a sentence on their heads, fending off unconsciousness and the instinctive Vulcan healing trance because he wanted to spend those last precious moments with Jim. McCoy felt tears on his face and they weren't his but they weren't Spock's, either, for Spock's eyes were closed and dry, his face pressed against Jim's warm shoulder where he'd fallen, Jim's arms wrapped protectively around his weary, beaten body. He wanted to melt into the embrace, to let it consume him as his desire to reach Jim had consumed him before, but he knew he had failed and that weight kept him from peace, indeed, it was heavier than he could bear.

* * *

He was drifting to the sound of Jim's breathing, of the gentle rise and fall of the body beneath him, counting breaths without registering their number. For all he longed to let go, to allow the darkness to settle around him for good, he could not leave Jim now. Perhaps in some time, before the executions began, so Jim could think he had died peacefully and himself find rest easier with that knowledge. He owed Jim that much. Certainly it was the logical course of action.

He'd had enough of his damn logic.

What? The incongruous thought took him by surprise, even in the swirling darkness behind his closed eyes, and he tried to focus on it. Unfortunately his mind was spinning, tired and awash in emotions he could no longer control, and it wasn't until the voice returned that he could force himself to focus into the darkness.

He'd better focus, if he and Jim wanted to get rescued any time soon. Of all the damnable times to get wishy-washy on him.

Spock frowned slightly against Jim's shirt, but the captain didn't seem to notice. Was he hallucinating? Perhaps, after all he had been through, he had begun to descend into madness as well. Certainly, his thoughts were more wandering, more circuitous and undefined, than usual. Yet the voice was strangely unmistakeable. Suspicious, and utterly confused, Spock ventured a thought into the void. Doctor McCoy?

_Yes_, his mind told him, sounding about as exasperated as one's own mind could sound.

It was illogical, and yet... he questioned it, what it was doing in his mind and how it had gotten there.

The answer came as a rush of urgency, a need for something from him, a flash of the meld he'd made trying to escape their captor on the surface, and the distinctive phrase _pointy-eared hobgoblin_.

Spock wondered how it could be, and supposed again it might be a hallucination.

The mind meld, McCoy returned. Never broke contact. Emotions in my head. Hobgoblin.

Recalling the storm of emotions he'd released since losing Jim, Spock could only respond with shame. To have subjected McCoy to them was wrong, for the doctor's sake and his own. He was sorry, he thought. So deeply sorry.

He was surprised, however, at McCoy's response. McCoy was sorry too.

What do you need from me? he asked. His meld with Jim had drained him and it was growing harder to keep his attention on their conversation, and harder to discern McCoy's thoughts in the comfortable darkness that shifted around him. It was altogether too tempting to let it take him, away from his broken body and the pain and the guilt.

We're looking for you. Tell me where they took you.

We? The darkness was swirling around him, and McCoy's thoughts seemed tinny and hollow, as though he were hearing them shouted from a great distance. He could hardly remember why they were talking, except he could still feel Jim's solid shoulder beneath his cheek, and that meant he still had something to do.

And with that, he gave McCoy all he knew.

* * *

The omnipresent hum shut off, abruptly, and Kirk tensed, turning his head toward the door. It was earlier than he'd expected, but waiting alone with Spock, the minutes had passed too quickly. His friend remained limp in his arms, and instinctively Kirk pulled him closer. So it was time. For an inimitable moment he felt a strange sense of calm, as though he should have expected all along that this was how it would end. He had faced impossible odds too many times to ever have expected that one day they wouldn't get the better of him. How else was he to die, if not in the line of duty, with his closest friend at his side. For though he had always thought, idly, that it would be better to die alone—alone enough, anyway, that the people who cared for him might be spared the pain of his passing— Spock's presence too felt right. He raised his chin and stared at the door, ready to face his executioners.

Then the door cracked open and he forgot his calm in an instant. For in the doorway, flanked by Chekov and Sulu and three security personnel with phasers at the ready, stood Scotty. Shocked, completely and utterly shocked, he could only stare.

"Thought you might be needing a rescue, Captain," Scotty said jovially, though Kirk could see the worry on his face as his gaze swept Spock's still body.

Kirk looked down at Spock, then back up to Scotty. "Help me," he said.

"We're already on it, sair," Chekov told him, grinning.

"We've found them," Sulu said into his communicator. "Not ten meters away from where Dr. McCoy said they'd be. Prepare for beam up."

"How?" Kirk gaped. He had been half convinced at first sight of them they were illusions, but somehow all his hopes and wishes had been granted. It wasn't too late.

"That," Scott said matter-of-factly, "will be a question for Dr. McCoy and Mr. Spock."

Kirk looked down at Spock again, but the Vulcan's face was peaceful.

"They're ready to beam us up," Sulu reported.

"Now don't move a muscle," Scott told him.

Then the whine of the transporter enveloped them, and Kirk found himself materializing in the one place he had never though to see again: home.

* * *

"Jim!"

Kirk swiveled around in the captain's chair at the sound of his name. He had returned to duty a little less than two weeks ago after a short convalescence (which had felt like years, but which McCoy and Dr. M'Benga both insisted had only been three days), and a busy two weeks they had been. After convincing Starfleet that he was, in fact alive and well—and that the bodies found must have belonged to unfortunate slaves from the compound, cleverly disguised as corpses—they had sent reinforcements and put him in charge of overseeing Starfleet operations to shut down the slaving facility. Said operations were going quite well, and the teams had begun the arduous process of identifying slaves and slavers alike, and returning the former to their homes and the latter to the appropriate penal colonies. Today, they were scheduled to hand over control of Catelus II over to the _USS Huron._ In addition, a ship full of human and Vulcan scientists to be dedicated to a study of the planet's magnetic field, would be on its way within the week. From his bed in the Sickbay, Spock had nearly smiled when Kirk told him.

"Bones," he greeted McCoy as the doctor stepped out of the turbolift. But his attention was stolen immediately by the lean figure following him, stiff and limping slightly, but walking under his own power and in uniform for the first time in two weeks. Kirk felt a silly grin alighting his face. Spock merely nodded once in return, but Kirk wasn't fooled. "Welcome back, Spock," he said.

"He's cleared for light duty, Jim," Bones informed him, patting Spock on the arm in what could only be described as a motherly fashion. Spock raised an eyebrow. "And a good thing too, since his climbing the walls in Sickback was starting to drive all of us a little mad."

Spock descended the pit steps to take his place by Kirk's chair. Kirk looked him up and down a little anxiously, but aside from the healing bruise on his cheek Kirk could see little outward evidence of his ordeal. The five-day healing trance he had sunk into, even as Bones and Dr. M'Benga had worked to repair the worst of the damage, had no doubt helped. Still, it had been touch and go from the start, and Kirk hadn't slept a wink until the doctors could assure him that Spock would be fine.

"I was not 'climbing the walls,' Doctor," Spock insisted. "Such an action would be wholly illogical."

McCoy sighed, the picture of exasperation, as he joined Spock on the other side of Kirk's chair. "You see what I've had to put up with all this time?" he asked Kirk imploringly.

Kirk looked between them, from Spock's expression of injured innocence to McCoy's scowl, his grin widening.

"I hardly find this amusing," Spock said at the same time as McCoy grumbled, "You're just happy 'cause you didn't have to spend the last solid week with him."

"So I take it all of that time and mental contact spend together didn't much increase your appreciation for each other's methods, did it?" Kirk asked lightly. It had been broken, McCoy said, not long after Spock had relayed what information about their location in the compound he knew, and as far as Kirk understood from talking to the both of them there had been no adverse consequences. Still, it was curious, and Kirk had resolved to ask Spock about it the next time they were truly alone—something which had been more or less impossible in Sickbay. For now, though, the mood was good enough he didn't resist the urge to jibe his two very different officers about it.

Still, at the change of subject Spock and McCoy traded glances, and Kirk could swear he saw the ghost something, an understanding perhaps, pass between them.

"On the contrary," Spock said after a moment. "I have learned that McCoy's mind is far more like that of a Vulcan than he lets on."

"And here I was going to say I'd found out that there _is_ more to you than your damned Vulcan logic," McCoy said, "but if you insist on calling names..."

"Really, Doctor, I see no need to insult me," Spock said.

Neither of them quite seemed to know what to do when Kirk looked between them, then laughed, and couldn't stop even as the heads on the bridge turned around one by one to look at them. He had survived this adventure with his friends intact and by his side, and more than anything that meant all was right with the galaxy again. Bones and Spock were both looking down at him now, McCoy with a bemused grin and Spock with that peculiar little half-smile he reserved for the most important of moments.

"Sir?" Sulu asked.

"It's time," Kirk said, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Ahead warp factor three. Let's get out of here."

* * *

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